


To Begin Is Also To End

by Nine_Stoic_Crayolas



Category: Naruto
Genre: BAMF Haruno Sakura, Character Growth, Doctor Haruno Sakura, Haruno Sakura has a life outside of team seven, Haruno Sakura-centric, Haruno Sakura/Self worth, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sakura is bitter, Strong Female Characters, Strong Haruno Sakura, Trauma, dealing with stressful relationships, honestly idk, if the war was depicted as a real thing???, mental health shit, poc characters, read and find out I guess, sakura is sad, taking a break, this is some sort of angst thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-05-26 09:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14997617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nine_Stoic_Crayolas/pseuds/Nine_Stoic_Crayolas
Summary: Sai lays there, unmoving, and Haruno Sakura does not forgive them for it.





	1. Chapter One

She wakes up the morning after and her head is pounding.

Her tongue is dry, tastes like cardboard and feels like sandpaper. She tightens her hands into fists and her fingernails dig into the flesh of her palm. She can smell the tinge of coppery blood in the air and she swallows down a shuddering sob.

Her eyes are still closed—clenched shut, lips sealed tightly together. The glare of the sun is harsh and it takes her more than a couple of blinks to adjust to the sudden brightness, the feeling of heat on her skin after days of ash and clouds and heaving, nebulous skies.

The first thing she sees is green.

Green—the green of her flak vest, the green of her grandmother’s eyes, the green of Konoha’s forests for miles to see.

She blinks again, the new light making her eyesight spotted and blurry, and she flicks her tongue out to dampen her lips. The skin is crackled, broken and it aches to soothe it over, the ravished flesh already pleading for more.

Sakura sucks in a breath when she looks up at the face.

Blank eyes, glazed over, stare back at her unblinking.

Her grip on him is frightening, legs wrapped around him so tightly that she can feel the stutter of his broken spine as she loosens around him.

There is a moment of stillness. The kind of stillness before the fall, just on the precipice of the cliff, eternity staring back at you, its maw wide and gaping.

And then she’s scrambling back, panic making her moves chunky and erratic and her breathing is coming in harsh pants. She can feel the burn of her throat, the beat of her heart thundering against her chest like a tattoo and she _can’t stop staring—_

Tears crawl down her face and she moans out a sob, her arms coming around her stomach like a band, and the nausea roils in her stomach, rising up within her so fiercely she has to turn away before the rations hit her shoes.

She feels hazy, lost, and the acid burns her tongue as she chokes on a cough, her shoulders still shaking from the force of her heaves. Her hands are digging into her sides and her chest is rising _too fast, too fast_ and all she wants is to _slowdownslowdownslow—_

Sakura forces herself to breathe.

In. Out. _In. Out._

The tears sting the tender skin under her eyes and her mouth is trembling as she gulps in breaths of air.

_In. Out. In. Out._

Her mind is whirling, spinning out of control as she wheezes, desperate, and tries to _breathe._

In. Out. In. Out. In. _Out._

Sakura breathes. One long exhale. Her shoulders are trembling. Her skin is damp to the touch, soaked in sweat. One long inhale. Her eyes skitter across the ground, focusing on a pebble.

_In, out. In, out._

She locks her gaze onto it—it’s round and gray. The most unassuming pebble of all time. There’s chalky white in the palette of color and she concentrates.

White, she thinks. White. Blank. My mind, she prays, is blank.

It takes three more long inhales and four exhales to get her to stop hyperventilating.

Her lips are cracked and she smells of vomit and dirt and ash, but she forces herself to look.

He’s still lying there. On the cracked, broken earth, torn apart by Kaguya’s plants and the fighting. Evidence of jutsu right there—in the puddle next to his head, the scorch marks that litter the earth, the jagged patterns that break up the ground systematically—water, fire, earth jutsu.

His hands are slender. Graceful. Pianist’s hands, she’d called them once. There were callouses on his fingertips, she knows, and one on his index finger, but they were remarkably well-kept for shinobi’s hands.

His skin is pale. She would have called it pasty-white, like some sort of skin disease she would have looked up in the medical dictionary just to make him fret a little. He’d always been…fastidious about his health. Now, it only looks like cracked porcelain, the fractures all too obvious.

His lips are still thin, chapped. He’d asked her for chapstick _before_ when they were getting ready—when they were alive. They had pressed against hers _once_ in a game, an _experiment_ , and then never again.

She stares at him. His chest isn’t rising. His lips aren’t curling into a confused smile. His eyes aren’t flashing with recognition.

Instead, he lays there, head against the cracked, broken earth, and stares at nothing.

She opens her mouth—to scream, to sob, to _bellow_ —but all that comes out is a shrieked whimper. A choked moan is next, and then a swallowed sob, and then she collapses again, her forehead in the dirt, nose pressed against the mud.

She screams silently, mouthing his name, tears running down her cheeks, shoulders trembling.

Sai lays there, unmoving.


	2. Chapter Two

**Before:**

_“No!”_ She’d bellowed.

There had been a flash of green and blue and red-black, and she’d bolted.

Kakashi closed his eyes.

**Now:**

Sakura brings him in.

He’s ice-cold against her, and there is a part of her that _never_ wants to let go now, a part that wants to hold on forever and ever and ever and _breathe life into him comeonsakuraiknowyoucandoit—_

She bites her lip until she’s able to choke down a mouthful of blood. Her eyes are dried now, but red-rimmed and bloodshot. She’s broken a blood vessel in her cheek and eye from vomiting. Her hands _tremble_ as they keep him hoisted on her back.

All around her, there are medics.

Some are dying themselves, the Kaguya pods having only replaced their mental lives, not their physical wounds. They still turn on their stomachs, eyes determined, brows furrowed together and _heal_.

Some, like her, carry the dead on their backs.

Others scream. They cry and sob. Their anguished moans echo across the battlefield and lift a cacophony of grief so fierce that Sakura’s knees begin to wobble and she thinks, maybe, maybe if I just _stop here then I can_ —

The body shifts against her spine and she feels his lips against her neck.

There’s no breath.

Sakura keeps walking.

**Later:**

She sees Lady Tsunade first, eyes impossibly tired, mouth quivering.

Even from twenty meters away, she can see the slight, mad quiver to her teacher’s mouth and Sakura knows the Hokage is thinking of getting up and leaving.

But Lady Tsunade is not a coward, regardless of her past. She stands up, head held high, eyes fierce, and marches towards the sickbeds. Her footsteps are light, but echoing in the silent stillness left behind.

_This is not a battle won,_ it seems to warble. _This is not something you can celebrate._

People are catching sight of her hair now—the familiar bubblegum pink; dark magenta roots, rose-petal tips. They open their mouths to shout, and they stutter, leaving them hanging open instead. Some sob when they see the body over her shoulders. Others, like Ino, Shikamaru, Choji—they breathe sighs of relief.

They remember her battles, her ferocity—her _healing gifts._ They thank every god that she has remained alive and intact.

They give her the privacy of turned eyes.

Sakura makes a beeline for her Lady. Her feet pick up the automatic pace she had set them on, her body working seamlessly without her mind, and she finds herself in a brisk, trotting run.

She tries not to think about how the body’s collarbones are knocking against her shoulder blades, head lolling behind her. She tries—and doesn’t succeed. She swallows another mouthful of blood.

**After:**

She sees them first on the gurneys, a peacefulness about them.

Naruto looks fondly at Hinata, hands resting on her cheek. She’s flushed to the roots, leaning forward, sleek hair sliding over her shoulder.

Sasuke watches them both, an air of contentedness about him.

They’re both stretched out on gurneys, arms missing.

Bile rises up, nausea roiling in her stomach and she feels herself gag.

They look so _happy._

How, she wants to scream, _how_ are they so happy? They had lost _millions of lives_ today. They had lost family and friends and teammates. They had lost _entire countries_ ’ worth of people—of culture and language and beauty.

She wants to turn away. To tear her eyes away from the grotesque picture of gentle joy, the soft budding of hope and cheer.

Instead, she stands there, hands hanging by her sides.

Sakura watches the affection blossom across Naruto’s face, the love bloom in Hinata’s eyes. She watches the shuttered peacefulness that flows in Sasuke’s movements, the slow beat of cautious joy in his being.

_Brothers,_ the stillness croons, _the bond of brotherhood has been restored._

A part of her, a sick, depraved part of her wants to kill them for this. She knows she’s supposed to be happy, supposed to be _glad_ that her teammates are finally at a standstill with each other. That they’re ready for peace and quiet lives and slow, cheerful afternoons.

But _they made the world like this._

Uzumaki Naruto.

Uchiha Sasuke.

Their legacy, for Sakura, for Konoha, for _the world,_ was not one of joy.

It was one of greatness, of power, of fierce might—but. _But_ ; tumultuous and roiling and filled with pain and suffering and _loss._

Kaguya’s—Hagoromo’s; whomever—reincarnations had destroyed the world for petty squabbles and arguments and—and—

Sakura did not think it to be fair that they got to be happy when they destroyed the world.

Monsters, she had thought, did not get happy endings.

**Now:**

“Casualty eight hundred and seventy-nine.” Sakura’s whisper breaks through the call-through of the lost.

Tsunade and Shizune startle at the sound.

Her mentor’s eyes liquefy with tears, molten and flowing, and Sakura finds herself swept into strong arms and pressed into heaving breasts. Another pair of hands settles on her head and waist, and her hair wets under their tears.

“Thought we lost you too.” Shizune sniffles, drawing back. Her lips are cracked and her eyes are red. There is a dazed grief about her, like one how is just realizing the _magnitude_ of their loss.

Sakura does not have the heart to tell her about Raido and Genma.

“…Sai…” her lips choke on the words _saved me_ , “…did something.”

Tsunade wipes away the single tear that crawls down her cheek. Her gaze is fractured, broken, but heavy in relief as she takes in Sakura’s choppy hair and flitting eyes and chapped lips.

“I am truly sorry, Sakura.” Her mentor speaks softly.

Sakura can only shake her head, afraid that her grief will wash away the rest of her.

**Before:**

“—and I love you with all of my _being_ ,” she’d finished saying.

She’d meant it.

He turns, eyes flashing.

The fist knocks itself into her chest.

A scream cleaves from her lips as she wakes early.

**Now:**

She’s compartmentalizing rather effectively, she thinks distantly.

Iodine. Disinfectant. Gauze. Tape. Mystical palm. Byakugou seal. Katsuyu chakra, goo, slime.

Her chakra is half full, the seal already replenishing her efforts.

Her hands move deftly, quickly, like clockwork.

Heal, rinse, repeat. Heal, rinse, repeat.

Her shoulders are stiff around her ears. She feels brittle, like a single touch will shatter her into a million pieces.

“Sakura,” Tsunade says, “I want you to check up on Uchiha Sasuke and Uzumaki Naruto.”

Her hands stutter. There is an intake of breath so sharp it burns her throat.

Sakura turns, words flat. “No.”

Her mentor looks at her. Watches the faint shake of her hands. The elevated breathing. Hears the beat of her throat rise. Tsunade hesitates, something flickering across her expression and then she nods.

She turns to Shizune.

“Check on them please.” Tsunade demands. Then she goes straight back to monitoring a chart. “Sakura, a little help here.”

Shizune goes by, eyes wide in worry.

Sakura doesn’t notice—heal, rinse, repeat.

**Before:**

She ran, feet pounding against the earth.

She sees them, standing a million feet tall, shining and brutal, swinging for the kill.

Sakura takes a running jump.

There is a scream.

And then—a yank.

**Later:**

“C’mon, Sai.” She pleads, a little, at least at first. “C’mon get back up, yeah?”

The smile he gives her twists his mouth. He coughs, blood tinging his lips. “Sakura. That was stupid.”

She still glares at him, even if it’s tearful. “Shut _up_. Stupid head.”

He laughs at her and it looks, for the first time, _genuine._ “…Same…Sakura…as…always…”

Her hands find his, grasping, clutching. She lies next to him, his head on her chest, looking down at him.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Her voice is a strangled whisper. She strokes his hair, softly, and he watches her through dazed eyes. “Sai. Why?”

He looks at her. “You are my teammate…my friend…you…are m-more important…than…a stupid…squabble.”

She shakes her head. Her throat is hardly large enough for her to breathe. She feels like she’s running on borrowed time.

“I’ll heal you. Just you watch.” She vows shakily. He grasps her hands tighter.

He grins at her—stilted, awkward, fumbling. “I…look forward…to it.”

“Yeah.” She chokes out a sob, her hands lighting up with green chakra. “Yeah you’re gonna.”

**Now:**

“—oi Sakura-chan!”

Heal, rinse, repeat.

“ _Sakura-chan!”_

Heal, rinse, repeat.

“Sakura.”

Heal, rinse, repeat.

“…Ano…Sakura-san…”

Heal, rinse, repeat.

“Hey! Leave her be—can’t you see she’s in the middle of a procedure there?”

“But Baa-chan—“

Heal, rinse, repeat.

**After:**

“…And you won’t see them?” Tsunade asks carefully, eyes watching her every move.

Sakura doesn’t flinch or stutter in her movements. She remains calm and steady, like a trickling stream.

“No, Tsunade-sama.” The words are dry and heavy on her tongue, but they don’t come out warped, and that’s what she’s practiced in the mirror for, for ten months. “I believe it is not relevant or conductive to my state of being.”

Tsunade looks at her, lips pursed. Then she sighs, deep, heavy and long. She rests her forehead against the palm of her hand, where deep grooves have formed from hours on hours of siphoning away chakra.

“Very well.” Tsunade breathes out in a steady manner. She sits up, eyes alert and ready. “Haruno Sakura. You are hereby dismissed from active service. You are no longer required to consider yourself as a ninja of Konohagakure, nor of Fire country. The regulations are as followed: you are not to reveal any secrets during the years spent serving as a ninja of Konohagakure. You are not to reveal or share any techniques renown or secret to the Land of Fire, regardless of need and demand. You are to contact the Hokage if there are signs of foul play, political unrest, or war that directly involve the Land of Fire. Do you understand?”

Sakura stands tall, proud—ready. “I understand, Hokage-sama.”

Tsunade’s eyes are eons of decades old as she speaks the words, “Haruno Sakura you are hereby released as a ninja of Konohagakure and you are no longer in active service.”

Sakura bows once, saluting her as she leaves the office.

She visits Sai’s grave and leaves a daffodil. Ino begs her not to leave.

Nonetheless—it is still Tsunade, Shizune and Ino that see her off and watch her walk all the way down the main road and out of Konoha until she is naught but a tiny dark smudge in the distance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in quick succession and jUST??? bear with my erracticness y'all


	3. Chapter Three

The thing about Heroes is that they are larger than life. They tower over every previously conceived notion of the person, ironing out the gritty details and folding the torn seams. Heroes get new lives, ones that are filled with gratitude and unrelenting cheer—astonished awe and the odds they managed to defeat, choking sobs as they are thanked for making a miracle.

The thing about Heroes though—is that there is usually only ever one.

Tsunade knew, as soon as Uzumaki Naruto bounded into her office, eyes ablaze, mouth shooting off rapid sentences, that he would be Konoha’s Hero.

He was tall and graceful—acted stupid enough to be relatable, was inspirational enough to _make a difference._ Uzumaki Naruto’s destiny was sealed long before he ever became a twinkling thought in his parent’s eyes.

He had defeated Pain, Madara and now…now he had defeated Kaguya, the Rabbit Goddess. He was the jinchuriki of the nine-tailed fox, in sync and parallel with the beast, and had managed to tame it in his measly seventeen years.

But it was when Uzumaki Naruto had dragged Uchiha Sasuke into the allied force’s camp that he was lauded a Hero. There were not many that remembered the Uchiha as individuals instead of the looming, feared ideals of bloodthirsty shinobi and dangerous eyes, but those that did could always recall the moment that their friends, loved ones, husbands, wives, partners underwent the curse of hatred.

Uzumaki Naruto had accomplished the impossible—he had managed to break a millennia-old curse and save the world all in one.

The thing about Heroes though, Tsunade knew, is that they were figureheads. They were ideals to admire, to look up to, to _adore_ but they were not were not _people._ They became fractured, warped when they were allotted Heroism and she rarely ever saw one that stayed—that stayed and made _a difference, a change._

The thing about Heroes, was that they were pretty half-truths and folded lies, and they stood there, standing proud and tall, and accomplished _nothing._

They had a singular, glorious moment in their lives—and then, not anything.

Not. One. Thing.

The thing about Heroes, Tsunade knows, is that it was the little people—the shopkeepers, the informants, the spies, the liars and politicians and civilians that _stay_ , that _stand for change_ ; they are the ones that make the ripples.

And so Tsunade listens when her youngest apprentice slips into her office. She listens to the bone-deep weariness, the rampant exhaustion in her tone. She listens to her monotone, flat words and hears the deadness in her statements, and _pays attention._

The reports of the bases tell her that she is working harder than ever, and on little to no sleep—that she, in herself, is a _miracle_ to behold. The aides whisper about her power, her growing skills even now after all that Tsunade had taught her, and _hunger_ for her abilities.

They show her a woman that works to the death, skilled fingers switching from case to case, bringing back even the most desperate. When given the chance—Haruno Sakura _burns_ with brilliance. They tell her of a legend in the makings—a woman so skilled she can thread life into death’s very bones.

“Why do you not wish to see them?” She only ever asks once, a whisper in her ear as Sakura leaves for the door. “…I know the report…was…horrifying.”

Sakura’s shoulders had tensed, rising to her ears and her blank eyes became flinty.

The words barely echo in the room, but Tsunade manages to catch them.

“My pain—my suffering—is not lesser to theirs. I do not have to cater to them ever again. I have served my time as their confidant, and now…now it is over. Now _I matter._ ”

Uzumaki Naruto rips into her office, not a day later, Hatake Kakashi and Uchiha Sasuke on his heels, and the screaming begins.

Haruno Sakura leaves with a splash.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oH MY GOD THREE CHAPTERS IN A DAY??? iknow im surprised too holy cripes???????????????? 
> 
> Listen guacamoles, this is literally just for plot advancement. I want y'all to get a feel for Tsu-chan's mental state and stuff before we move onto Sakura-sweet-cakes. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!! I hope??? you enjoyed??? it??


	4. Chapter Four

**Before:**

It is the genin that breaks her.

The fourth month on the battlefield begins on a dreary gray sky, the ash of war not having receded yet. The medics take their breaks by rushing around the camps, passing out fresh water bottles, blankets and rations to the survivors. The injured come in by the masses—broken bones, burns, acid, chicken wire, garrote—the wounds, fractures, traumas are endless.

Her face is stone, her hands steady. It’s a miracle she hasn’t crashed already, but the medics who have been lucky enough to catch a few blinks of sleep monitor her carefully, the most trained sensors flicking over her chakra every once in a while.

Sakura hasn’t slept for forty eight hours when they bring the little girl to her.

She’s just finished sewing up a dismembered leg, her chakra soothing away any chance for a scar when the exhausted medic-aides take patient four thousand and six to the shanty recovery ward and replace him with patient four thousand and seven.

Sakura blinks once, twice.

“What’s this?” she hardly dares to _breathe._

The medic-aide closest to her startles, having gotten used to the sobering silence. “Patient—“

“This is a _child._ ” Sakura whispers. Tears distort her vision. Her mouth begins to tremble and the surgical knife clacks hard against the stainless steel of the makeshift operating table.

The girl is _brutalized._ The skin of her throat is charred, burned away from fire jutsu and acid, and there is a suffocating rot that clogs the air. Her face is unrecognizable underneath the damage—nose bloated, eyes swollen, retaining water, lips bulging out. Her skin is a massive bruise; livid and angry against the pallor of her skin.

She’s _so small._

_(Nine years old they tell her later, only nine, only nine, only nine—what was she **doing** —)_

“ _A child.”_ She whispers again.

“Sakura-sama…” the medic-aide across from her begins, voice soft, “…this is a ninja.”

“No.” She shakes her head. Her lungs _squeeze_ , throat closing around the words that rise up against her tongue and—and _she can’t breathe—_

_This is a baby, a baby, a baby—a baby._

Her hands begin to tremble and her composure _cracks—_ she thinks of screaming and begging and sobbing—of falling asleep next to still-warm corpses and _hopinghopinghoping—_

The world spins and crashes as they drag her out of the operating room, screaming.

Later they tell her she was screaming a name—

“Sai? Is he a friend of yours?”

**Earlier:**

Her throat is raw when she wakes.

She blinks and already feels exhausted. Her joints are protesting, her muscles ache, and her skin is hot to the touch. It takes her a moment to push herself up into a sitting position and she stifles a groan.

_Fever._

Her pajamas are soaked to the skin from sweat and nightmares and she flushes in shame as the acrid scent of urine fills the air.

She sobs into her chest, chin hitting her collarbones. Her body shakes violently, and soon she can barely control the spasms, so frenzied her teeth clack together and rattle inside her skull. Sakura wants nothing more than to fold in on herself and fade away to nothing when—

“Sakura-sama?”

Cerulean blue eyes fill her sight and her eyes roll back in her head.

_(“Hokage-sama—Hokage-sama—you need to **come quick** —it’s Haruno-sama—“)_

**Now:**

She’s waited months to leave.

The tarp of her tent is folded into her backpack, and soon even that is going into the scrolls.

Sakura’s sent all her letters to Tsunade and Ino—Ino who was pulled from medic duty three months ago, when the Yamanaka Clan needed its heir back. Shizune stands next to her, hair pulled into a scruffy ponytail, sweat glistening on her brow.

Depthless brown eyes search hers, and the older woman purses her mouth in a worried manner. “Are you—“

“I’m sure.” Sakura says quietly. Her eyes stay riveted on the heavy green tarp. She traces a drop of rain absently, watching it crawl all the way down to the hem and edge off into the grass.

She’s only got one more stop before she leaves.

Anticipation and dread flutter in her stomach.

She’s hidden away at the medic-tents that remain standing at the border of each nation for ten months now. It’s easy like that—to drown herself into cases, into patients and injuries until she’s knee deep in blood and wading in intestines.

It’s easier to fill her mind with static rather than to face it all head on.

Shizune sighs, low and heavy. Her shoulders slump and her face creases, mouth turning into a listless frown. “I’m sorry Konoha has failed you, Sakura.”

Fierce green eyes snap up to brown ones and Sakura grasps the woman by the arms, fingers digging deep. “Konoha _did not fail me._ Lady Tsunade did not fail me. You, Shizune-nee, did _did not fail me._ ”

“Then why are you leaving.” The words hold deep accusation and hurt, and Shizune’s eyes fill with tears.

When Sakura doesn’t answer, she tries again. “Sakura _please_. We need you. _We need you._ ”

Sakura bites her lip so hard she swallows down a mouthful of blood. This, she thinks, is the hardest part of leaving. She shakes her head furiously. “I’m not going to apologise for this, Shizune-nee. This—This is something I have to do. Danzo…he took too much from me…from my family, my life, my _world._ ”

Shizune’s eyes search hers. The static of the camps fill the chasm between them and slowly, Shizune’s face darkens, sharpening with startling clarity. “…He’s not the only one is he?”

Sakura hesitates for too long when she thinks of them.

_Sasuke. Naruto. Kakashi._

She doesn’t think she can ever look at them again.

“No.” Sakura barely whispers. “No he’s not.”

“…Well I’m going to visit you.”

**After:**

“…What do you mean she’s _gone?_ ” Naruto just about bellows.

His face is red and charged with anger, his eyes sparking furiously. He’s just about to speak again, when Tsunade interrupts him.

“She is no longer under Konohagakure’s jurisdiction.”

Kakashi’s grip on his book slackens. “I beg your pardon?”

“What?” Naruto whips between the two of them, eyes flashing. “What does that _mean?_ ”

“It means,” Sasuke begins, a sense of dawning dread filling his chest, “that Haruno Sakura is no longer a Konoha-ninja.”

Naruto gapes, stunned.

“Sakura-chan is the best medic in the entire world, Hokage-sama.” Kakashi doesn’t speak sharply all too much, but his gaze is fierce on Tsunade and his words are cutting. “She _cannot_ leave without there being repercussions.”

“Boy, don’t you think I know that?” Tsunade snaps back, just as bitingly. Her eyes burn with anger, and underneath, there sparks a keen current of loss. “She is extraordinary. Unparalleled. Medics have _fought each other_ for the opportunity to be her apprentice.”

“Then _why?”_ Sasuke asks, voice strangely raw at the discovery that _she_ was gone. His hands had turned to fists in his pockets, face freezing in a macabre display of brutality.

Tsunade’s shoulders slump. Her eyes shutter closed. A sigh escapes her.

“…Sakura isn’t Konoha-born. She has completed her requirements in order to be respectfully be discharged from the Konoha military.”

“…She can’t be gone, Baa-chan.” Naruto whispers. His eyes fill with tears, his mouth begins to wobble. “…There’s _no way_ she would just _leave—“_

He looks up at her, imploring. “We have to _get her back.”_

The Hokage draws herself up, and looks down at them with every inch of dignity and might she can muster.

“I _order_ you to stay in Konoha. You are hereby prohibited to leave Konoha with the intention to find Haruno Sakura. Failure or refusal to adhere to these orders will end with a sanction of excommunication from Konoha’s military force.”

Tsunade does not relent, even when Naruto sparks with biju chakra and Sasuke’s rinnegan begins to spin.

**Now:**

In the months that she’s left Konoha’s military force, she’s gotten seventeen offers by all four remaining Kage. They’re cloyingly sweet, flattering—and all too obvious. She wasn’t blind to the whispers that followed her abilities at the medic-camps, wasn’t oblivious to the awed chatter that seemed to fill the air whenever she healed another un-treatable patient.

Sitting on a tree-stump, hair piled high on her head, sweat glistening on her brow she makes her decision.

The war ended ten months ago.

For Haruno Sakura, the battle has just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooo. I don't even knOW. but here???? i hope you vaguely enjoy this??? thank you all so mUCH for reviewing y'all are making my day you don't even understand like--i'm blessED. I just hope im doin' everyone justice, i rly wanna get all this right.


	5. Chapter Five

**Before:**

Kizashi bows his head into his hands, and his thick rose locks slide down to shield his face. His elbows knock against the metal of the table and the cold seeps into his skin, settling into his bones.

“Fujioka-san, I trust you have been made aware of why you are here?” the officer says calmly, flipping through the report that lies on the interrogation table.

Kizashi says nothing, all too aware of how one mishap can make or break the case against him. If there even _is_ a case.

“You first arrived in Konoha from your travels abroad, is this correct?” the officer asks, dark eyes boring into him.

He looks up then, slate-gray eyes reaching the officer’s darkened ones. “That would be correct, officer-san.”

“And you are from Kiri-country, are you not?”

“…That is correct, Officer-san.”

The man flips through the record again, and a frown begins to groove its way into his forehead, the crease between his brows deepening. His lips are pursed, disapproving, when he looks up once more. “You have a history as a Kiri-ninja, Fujioka-san. Are you aware that this makes your case a suspicious one?”

Kizashi’s shoulders slump and he feels the familiar dread build in his chest and swirl in his lungs. He struggles to draw breath to explain himself.

This has been the fourth arrest in three weeks.

The people who buy his wares no longer stop and chat with him. His sales on weaponry and rare blades have taken a spectacular dive, and it is only Mebuki’s dowry and meager salary as a civilian teacher that allows their small family to buy bread from the local grocery store.

“I am aware, Officer-san.” Kizashi hedges and the other man leans forward, eyes sparking with a desperate sort of curiosity that leans towards malice. “…however, I am no ninja. I have barely attained the rank of genin, as I was recruited from my local village in a large group of boys and girls. It was after the purges, you see, and Kiri needed more ninja in its military ranks—“

“You do not deny that you have carried a Kirigakure headband however, status as a genin or not?” the officer interrupts. His words are brusque, unfriendly, and they remind him of the people who turned away from him as soon as they learned of his origins.

Kizashi hangs his head. “No, sir, I do not. But—“

“We have evaluated your situation, Fujioka-san.” The officer begins again, interrupting once more. He steamrolls over Kizashi’s attempts to _explain,_ to get him to _understand please I have a daughter at home, she’s only seven_ , “In the eyes of the law, you remain unmarried. Your civilian visa expires in ten days. There is no reason as to why you should be allowed to remain in Konoha—“

“But I have a _family_ , Officer!” Kizashi erupts, anger making him rash.

His eyes burn with anger and he thinks of all he has done for Konoha. He has donated money to the orphanages after the Kyuubi attack. He has rebuilt sheds for his neighbors, planted flowers along the Hokage tower with the rest of Mebuki’s gardening club, granted loans and lent out payment to the Konohian friends who shunned him when his nationality came out.

He thinks of the _love_ and _devotion_ he has poured out to this city—this country—and boiling, overflowing fury builds within him.

“I am _married_ to my wife, Mebuki, of six years!” He shouts, “I have a daughter, who turns eight in the spring. She’s enrolled in _Konoha’s_ ninja academy as a foot soldier for _your_ army—not Kiri’s! I have lived here for _ten years_ , been married for _six,_ and have come home with a daughter—how are you going to explain to my daughter that her father has to leave because her country rejects his previous nationality?”

The officer remains unmoved, eyes still and unwavering as stone.

While Kizashi has torn out of his seat, shoulders heaving, face turned red in rage, the officer has remained sitting, his hands crossed in a civil position. His expression is neutral, if disapproving, and it is then that Kizashi begins to understand that even though he has lived here for ten years, has mingled and breathed and lived with the rest of the Konoha civilians, he is no longer allowed to do so.

He thinks of the desperation he’d felt in Kiri, the yawning abyss of hunger that gnawed at his stomach, the fear that made his intestines curdle, the terror that tore away at his mind. Every day had been a battlefield; every minute had been a fight for survival.

It had taken him fourteen years to leave Kiri-country, and now…now even after everything he had _done_ for Konoha…they were going to abandon him on the street like dirty laundry.

“I can’t _leave_ , officer.” Kizashi’s voice trembles. His eyes widen so much the whites show. “You…you don’t know what it’s _like_ there…”

The officer’s expression hardens.

“Fujioka Kizashi—“

“It’s _Haruno_ —“

“—if you do not leave by the morning of the tenth day, you will be forcibly removed from your home and brought to Torture and Interrogation. If you fail to adhere to these orders and resist arrest a fifth time…there will be…distasteful consequences.”

Fear and dread curdles Kizashi’s stomach and his lips shake as he speaks. “And my daughter? My little Sakura is not Konoha-born—do I take her with me? Her mother?”

The officer shakes his head. “Your daughter is a _Konoha_ -genin, Fujioka-san. Her mother is a Konoha-civilian. If you attempt to take them with you, you _will_ be forcibly removed from the situation and brought to Torture and Interrogation.”

“But this is my _family._ ” Kizashi pleads and his voice breaks with tears. “You—you can’t _do_ this—this is my family—“

The officer curls his lip. “Not by Konoha law.”

**After:**

The Daimyo’s city is sticky-hot like the steam that rises from rice cookers. Sweat clogs pores and ripples down skin, and gathers odor. People lounge around in thin yukatas, their hair propped high up on their heads, and fan themselves languidly, frustration evident on their features when the hot air remains exactly that—hot.

Maeko gets down on her knees, joints creaking with old age and brittle bones, and scrubs at the juice stain.

Her daughter laughs, and claps her hands giggling to herself. “Again! Again! Mama—again!”

Maeko sighs, and straightens. Her hands are creased with age, the veins bloated and bulging in the thick, curved fingers. Their grip on the sponge is faltering, and it won’t be long before she’ll be unable to pick almost anything up.

A lock of silvery gray hair falls from her bun, pinned tightly to the top of her head.

Her daughter giggles to herself again. “ _Mama_! The juice go _splat._ ”

“Yes,” Maeko says softly and her daughter’s eyes gleam with joy. “Yes Mebuki. The juice goes splat. Can you say it properly for me, my little moon?”

Her daughter struggles, sky-blue eyes crossing at her nose, tongue dangling out of her mouth. “T-T-The—ju-juice…we-e-ent sp—lat.”

Maeko rises to her feet, a hand going to rub away the ache that throbs unrelentingly. Crossing the tiny, boxed room, she squints at the muck on Mebuki’s chin. The forty-year old woman stays still as Maeko leans forward to brush away the recesses of her lunch—brown curry stains her mouth and chicken remnants litter her lips.

“Thank you for finishing your food Mebuki.” Maeko says and her daughter nods, blonde curls bouncing with her. “Do you want to finish your juice?”

“Juice!” Mebuki cackles and throws her head back in a mad laugh.

The hot days are the worst, Maeko knows. It reminds her daughter—what little is left of her—of the day they took her husband. Maeko remembers little of that day herself, but what she does let filter through is something that manages to curdle her stomach every time.

“ _Mama_.” Mebuki whines, cocking her head like the two-year-old she once was. It only looks heartbreaking on the forty year old she’s supposed to be. “Where Sakura? She coming?”

Maeko stiffens, recoiling.

The hot days are always the worst, she thinks, blinking away bitter tears.

“Ah musume,” Maeko’s voice breaks. “She’ll be coming soon.”

“Pro—Promise?”

“I promise, little moon.” Maeko whispers and she turns away to hide the tears that slip down her rugged cheeks.

Mebuki goes back to staring out the window, swinging her legs like a child.

**Before:**

Mebuki’s eyes flash with anger when she sees the silent men at her doorstep. Her hands fist with fury and she bites her lip so hard, she draws beads of glittering blood.

“It’s nothing, my love. Just protocol, I’m sure.” Kizashi soothes, even though his own gaze flickers between the two men cautiously. He makes sure that his hands are visible, that his movements are slow and purposeful.

He can already see one of them with a hand on his kunai pouch.

Mebuki is stiff in his arms as he draws her close, burying his nose into her flower-scented hair. She smells like her favorite perfume—a mix of jasmine and lilacs that carries faintly on her skin. She’s warm in his arms and he thinks, only a few days, only a couple of weeks at most until she joins him with his little girl.

They’ll smuggle their family out of Konoha and they’ll be _safe._ Kizashi does not know where they’ll go, or where they will be welcome—three refugees, of Konoha and Kiri respectively, their daughter of mixed descent. It will be hard and Sakura would definitely cry, but they would be together—and safe, Kizashi thinks. They would be _safe._

It’s when he goes to kiss her that they drag him away.

“Don’t touch her—she’s not your wife.” One of the men orders, voice stiff.

Mebuki bristles, “He’s my _husband_ —we share a daughter—“

“Not by Konoha’s law—“the other man spits, and it’s obvious that he has something personal against Kiri because he leers at Mebuki, crude words bubbling from his lips.

Mebuki screams at them, eyes fierce, hands curled into fists and the man takes a step forward to stop her.

“Don’t make a scene, Haruno-san—“

It happens all too quickly.

Mebuki raises a fist, and Kizashi’s pushed forward by a rough shove and his hands land on the katana at the first ninja’s back. His eyes widen and he goes to lean back—

There’s a sickening silence as the red line appears across his neck.

Kizashi barely has any time to look shocked as his body slumps to the floor and the blood begins to pool.

“No,” Mebuki moans and she rushes forward, her hands slipping in Kizashi’s blood as she presses against the wound. “ _No, no, no—no—“_

The woman is desperate—cupping the pooling blood, pushing at his throat, tears making her words ragged with grief. _Come on,_ she thinks hysterically, _come on, come on— Kizashi—_

“He—“the ninja starts, and his eyes are wide, hand gripping the blade too tight—“He was resisting—“

“He did _nothing wrong.”_ Mebuki chokes out. “Nothing, nothing—he was going to go, like you asked— _No_ —Kizashi, Kizashi my love— _anata_ —“

It’s then that the other one moves, hands forming seals, eyes hard and _lurches._

Haruno Mebuki doesn’t stand a chance.

**Later:**

“The attack was unprecedented, Haruno-san.” The silver-haired man tells them.

Her grandmother slips a hand over her back and rubs gently. Her eyes are filled with tears and her lips wobble as she nods her head, “I understand, Danzo-sama.”

Sakura raises red-rimmed eyes. “…And my mother?”

Danzo’s eyes bore into her green ones. “She lives…but there is damage.”

“How much?” Sakura whispers.

Her face goes white when they’re led to her mother’s hospital room where there lies a stranger.

“…Mama?” Mebuki tilts her head childishly. Her eyes sparkle, lips stretch wide into a gummy smile. “You early! Early!”

Then her gaze swivels onto Sakura, and her eyes cloud, muddy with confusion. Mebuki glances back to Maeko, whose eyes go painfully wide at the realization that—

“Who that?”

Danzo’s eyes follow Sakura and Maeko’s forms out the door.

It’s not the last time he visits them.

**After:**

“You failed me.” Danzo’s words cut through the air. “You have cost me much, Shohta. Hiruzen will find it suspicious that it is _my_ men who killed the Kiri couple. The woman—she was to stay alive, functional. The _man_ was supposed to be killed _outside_ the gates, not inside. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“—I—Danzo-sama—Hisao fixed it—“

“ _Hisao_ broke Haruno Mebuki’s mind, Shohta.” Danzo snaps. “That woman will _never_ be the same.”

There is a desperate, stretching silence and then—

“You have failed me.” Danzo says. “You will pay for your actions.

He lowers his head and doesn’t dare glance up at the screaming that follows. It is a long time before the wails and moans stop.

It is a long time until a certain codename Sai chokes through the mouthfuls of blood and, with stained teeth and searching eyes, tells the story of a couple fated to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right so here we are. I'm just setting everything up yah. HInts and such. UGH i hope you like this. I really want Sakura to be a well-rounded character here, with an actual real background--cos come on dude, she's literally like the only one who has parents in all of Team Seven that aRE ACTUALLY ALIVE?????? Kishimoto didn't do anything with them?? and i'm like ugH no? so here. hope you enjoy it :)


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sai lays there, unmoving, and Haruno Sakura does not forgive them for it.

**Before:**

“Sakura…” he rasps. Blood beads on his lips. “I have…something to…tell you…”

And then—

“You’ll come with me, right Sai?” she begs, mouth trembling. “We’ll go together?”

“…I’d…go anywhere...with you…”

**Now:**

Haruno Sakura arrives in the Daimyo’s city with only her pack, a cup of soup in her stomach and a plan that could be considered as suicide.

It’s hot, and sticky, and it reminds her that this is new, something _different._ Her mouth falls open, just a little, at the sight that lies before her.

Sakura had visited the Daimyo’s city once when she was very little and still able to cling to her mother’s long skirts. She remembered rising buildings that seemed to kiss the sky, and the way that they glittered and shone in the midday sun. She remembered a city that bustled and moved like it was a living, breathing animal; with people that streaked makeup on their faces and danced liberally at night, never stopping, never considering, only _living._

The city that lies before her now is dead.

The streets are broken, jutsu having ripped through the asphalt leaving behind torn landscapes and destruction. The wake of the war is so sharp it nearly suffocates her. It’s in the way that the buildings have crumbled, blocks of brick and wood and cement that tumble down on the ravaged roads in haphazard patterns. It’s how the fire hydrants bubble with water, dribbling down the streets, and mud clogs the drains, the smell of shit and burning plastic reaching her nose.

It’s how the people—once lively and burning in rapturous elation—hunch their backs and look over their shoulders, their faces drawn, and lips bloodless. Their clothes are no longer bright and colorful, instead they don thin cotton yukata slathered in mud and dust and dirt, choking down the bright blues and greens and yellows that threaten to shine through.

The crowds are gone, but the people remain—drawn, cautious and terrified. In the distance, there’s smoke and it curls up in the sky, a cloud of thick black, before it dissipates into nothing.

Sakura stands still, hand clenching on her pack, and stares. She shouldn’t be surprised, she knows. Sakura has seen war; she’s seen desperation on the streets and fighting and brutal violence that makes your breath catch in your lungs.

But a little, wheedling part of her can’t help but wonder… _where were the shinobi?_

She swallows hard and thinks of the family she’s set out to find, to reunite with. She barely remembers Maeko-baa-san now, only glints of silver and bright green eyes shine through the fog of memory. Her mother is the same; in her mind, Mebuki’s face is faded at the edges, and Sakura can’t recall the exact sharpness of her mother’s nose only that it _was_ , or the way her mouth curled when she was scolded, only that it _did._ Sakura remembers golden curls, pristine and thick, and bright, brilliant blue eyes—her grandfather’s eyes.

Sakura closes her eyes and thinks of her mother’s face—sharp nose, blue eyes, curling mouth—of her grandmother’s eyes—brilliant, sharp, tenuous green that could stare a hole through your soul—and Sai.

Sai, who died for her, who died telling her. Sai who promised he’d be with her.

Her heart beats loudly in her throat, and her eyes are tight, and she can only hope that they aren’t already dead. That the shinobi stationed at this city protected enough of the civilians for her family to remain safe, remain alive.

But, she thinks, I won’t give up before I set my eyes on their very corpses.

**Before:**

Ino knows a lot about Haruno Sakura. She knows her favorite foods—anmitsu and tempura—she knows her favorite colors—green and blue—she knows a lot about Haruno Sakura. Ino knows that her best friend is a giant in the medical field. Her chakra is what sets her apart, molds her into something untouchable, brilliant, _enviable._ Ino knows that there are medics who would _kill_ to learn from her, and who have, in fact, threatened to tear each other to pieces whenever there’s a spot in her lectures.

Ino knows a lot about Sakura.

But Ino also knows, that there are parts of Sakura that _no one_ knows about. Like how her house was always dark in the evenings, and how she sometimes forgot to go home and slept in the hospital morgue, blinking in shock whenever Ino found her on an extra gurney and rushed for her to get home so her parents wouldn’t worry.

Like how when Uchiha Sasuke was reported to have killed Danzo, she stiffened horribly, and the blood was drawn from her face even though weeks ago, she’d cursed the man out something big. Like how Sakura disappeared that entire evening, and no one knew where she had gone, and when Ino had gone to ask Tsunade, the woman had leveled her with a sharp, choking look and told her not to question it.

There’s a lot, Ino realizes later, she doesn’t know about Sakura before the war.

**After:**

“…You could have told me, you know.” Ino said quietly, running a hand through Sakura’s soft hair.

“No.” her best friend says. “There’s…I couldn’t.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” Ino whispers.

“…You didn’t do anything to hurt me.” Sakura looks up at her then, green eyes fierce in the sun. It matches the green of the meadows in Nara forest, the green of their flak vests and the training ground grass beneath them.

Sakura’s eyes have always been stunning, and once, when they were little and still squabbling, Ino wished for them to be hers, those gem-like orbs that shone like a brilliant green fire.

“Maybe.” Ino answers, fingers tracing the pink that shimmers in the afternoon sun. “But so many people did.”

**Now:**

Ino cries for days when Sakura leaves. Her best friend—her sister in all but blood—has left her _here_ in Konoha, were the people are stiff and terrified, but sport fixed smiles on their faces and manic eyes.

Shikamaru, of course, notices and invites her over for shogi. He makes her sit on the side where there’s the most sun—her favorite spot when she was little before he _stole it from her_ —and it only takes ten minutes before Ino bursts into tears.

Shikamaru, bless his soul, doesn’t even blink. He moves the board out of the way and carefully piles the pieces so they don’t break, and then crawls on over to where she’s wailing and sobbing into her knees. He drapes his arm over her shoulders and Ino thinks, when did Shikamaru get so _warm_ and nuzzles his chest as she hiccups.

“…She’s _gone_ , Shika.” Her voice is muffled by his vest and she squeezes her eyes so tight that there’s no light that’s able to creep through. “… _Why_ did she leave?”

Shikamaru stiffens, and Ino wouldn’t have caught it if her face hadn’t been buried into his chest. She nearly rips herself from his grasp and her arms shoot out and catch him by the shoulders.

“What do you know?” her voice is throaty and she’s sure her face looks gross from crying—an ugly, splotchy red that made her look diseased—but if Shikamaru _knows something_ then he _has to tell her_.

His eyes, deep dark brown like the earth, search hers with a ferocity that almost takes her aback. “Ino…there’s a lot you don’t know about Haruno Sakura. Things that no one knows. Things that should best remain secret.”

But this is _Sakura_ , Ino thinks and remains undaunted.

She narrows her eyes at him. “I’m her best friend. Her _best friend,_ Shikamaru. I need to be able to help her.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at her, dark eyes roving over her face, an intense, fierce gleam that almost makes her back down, but Ino’s never been quite good at that so she just tightens her grip on his shoulders and sets her jaw.

She’s about to try and shake it out of him when Shikamaru speaks.

His voice is quiet and soft, but the effect is thunderous.

“Haruno Sakura is not Konoha-born.” Shikamaru begins and Ino sucks in a gasp. “There is a reason that she wasn’t good in the academy, and it wasn’t because she was stupid or without drive.”

“What do you mean, Shika,” she asks, and her voice wobbles. “What do you _mean_ —tell me—tell me _everything.”_

Shikamaru looks at her and Ino gets the feeling that she’s at the precipice of a fifty foot drop. One step backwards will keep her safe, keep her unassuming and unknowing. One step forward will shift her worldview forever.

But, Ino thinks, this is _Sakura_.

And so she asks again, her voice steadier this time. “Tell me, Shikamaru.”

He does.

**After:**

Ino gets the first letter on the first of March.

_Ino,_ it reads in the familiar looping, flowery script of hers, _I’m safe. I’ve found them._

A brilliant, beaming smile breaks out on her face and she throws the letter in the air and whoops. She dances around the shop and cheers at the flowers and smiles so hard her cheeks begin to ache.

The customers look at her strangely, but Ino doesn’t care.

_Sakura,_ she starts, _Thank god. I miss you. How are you? I’m glad you’re safe. I’m…I’m so happy you’ve found them._

And as always, she finishes the letter with _come home soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right okay, so there's a reason why everything seems like a bunch of mishmash and such but please bear with me!!! I want to work with Sakura's character and I want to make her seem like a real 3-D person. What I was super disappointed with during the manga/anime was that she didn't have even a hint of backstory and neither did most of the other characters apart from Team Seven and big bad enemies and such. Like??? Kishi she's your main female lead, please pay more attention??????? ach anyways, here's another update and i hope you like it!!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sai lays there, unmoving, and Haruno Sakura does not forgive them for it.

**Before:**

“Out of both of them, who’s most like you?” Jiraiya asks her, eyes playful.

He’s always playful, Tsunade thinks. Never serious, always joking—lighthearted, is what they call him.

She huffs at him, waving him away with a flick of her hand. “I’ve _work_ to do Jiraiya. Go make yourself useful.”

_(If she’d know then what she knew now, she wouldn’t take it all that lightly.)_

“Mou, _hime._ ” He whines, and the tone is so familiar it threatens to make a smile burst over her face.

Instead, she arches an unimpressed eyebrow and curls her lip.

Jiraiya begs with his eyes, and she caves faster than a cheap tent.

“You’re _such_ a child—“She starts, but the edges of her lips are twitching.

He perks up faster than a chipmunk and leans over her desk, chin supported in his large hands.

“But if I had to pick between Shizune and Sakura, I’d say Shizune.”

Jiraiya looks shocked. “Not little cute Sakura-chan?”

Tsunade rolls her eyes. “ _Little cute Sakura-chan_ can break your spine with a swipe of her pinky.”

He shudders and she smiles.

“But no,” Tsunade begins again. “Shizune…she’s lonely, wandering. People forget about her, slowly, because even though she’s important, she’s been gone so long that everyone forgets to notice.”

Jiraiya looks at her then, softly, and she has to jerk her eyes away. There are times, like this one, where she cannot bear to have that gaze upon her. Where Jiraiya’s eyes feel scalding on her skin, stripping her bare for all to see, and she cannot _stand it._

“Sakura, though.” She coughs to cover the hoarseness of her words. “She’s a fighter. She’s got grit. There’s never been something she hasn’t had to fight for. Her entire life’s been a quiet battlefield and—that girl’s never going to give up.”

_Not like me,_ is what she doesn’t say.

Jiraiya doesn’t say anything in return but he leaves the sake bottle sitting on her desk.

It’s only later that she realizes he’s switched the sake with water.

**Now:**

“Why did you let her leave, Tsunade?” Shizune asks one day, and her voice aches with grief.

She sighs, the weight of that burden making her shoulders sag and her face plummet.

“Sakura is…” Tsunade begins, but she trails off, unable to explain.

Unable to quite understand why she’d let her best medic leave right after the end of the war efforts. Perhaps it had been her eyes, Tsunade thinks. Flat, blank, dead.

Or maybe, it’d been because she saw that same desperation reflecting back at her in those depthless green eyes— _please,_ it had begged, _please let me go, I need to find them._

“Exactly seven years ago,” Tsunade says, and her voice is as hard as the heart that beats away in her chest. “There used to live a family in the civilian district. They were happy, and joyful, and loved to live life.”

There is a horrible sort of understanding that begins to fill Shizune’s face, and her mouth begins to wobble.

“There was a mother and a father and a…and a little girl.” Tsunade whispers. “The mother was of Konoha. The father was not. In a happy coincidence, they met each other working in the merchant sector. They quickly became partners—the mother the assistant to the father. There tryst was a short one, but full of affection. Their daughter was conceived in Kiri, and born there—on the Island of the Fading Sun, where the Father hailed from.”

“They were happy.” She says it so quietly her whisper barely fills the room. Shizune is pale now, and it only makes her look more sallow, like all the life has been sucked out of her.

“And then, Kumo kidnapped a Hyuuga child.”

“And immigrants and refugees were no longer welcome.”

“Full, descriptive background checks were supposed to be as far as it went. There was to be no leaks, no breaks in the system; nothing that would allow a spy to bring back to their nation.”

Horror fills Shizune’s face. Tears streak down her cheeks and drip down her chin.

“But Hiruzen-sensei…gave that job to—“

“—To Danzo.” Shizune finished.

“…And he ruined that family, that happiness, and took it for his own.”

**Before:**

Maeko hears the old man before he makes himself known. He’s been skulking around for months now, coming over for tea and sitting with Mebuki who still doesn’t remember her little girl.

Sakura doesn’t come home nowadays, and Maeko worries. The little ten-year-old is only two years away from graduating, and the soft, gentle personality she’d carried before is gone; washed away under the grief, the rage and anger that fuels her.

The last time Maeko had seen her was in the market, chasing after the last Uchiha boy, and she’d gritted her teeth when Sakura had ignored her calls and continued fussing. There was a certain rigidity to her shoulders that let Maeko know she’d heard.

Sakura, before, had been a serious little girl. Gentle and soft, but determined and driven. This Sakura, the one who wears makeup and who barely glances at Maeko and Mebuki as she skitters out the door, is one she does not know.

The diets her little friend Ino tell her to go on covers the fact that Sakura won’t eat the bentos Maeko prepares for her. Sakura’s wrists are thin, easily breakable. Maeko doesn’t have to look at her grades to know that Sakura’s lacking in the physical education of the academy.

The only thing that brings Sakura joy, now is—

“Dan-san!” Mebuki cheers and drags the elder inside by the hand and makes him sit on the couch. Her daughter curls up next to the man and pokes at his bandages. And, like a well-loved grandfather, Danzo smiles at her, eyes creased, and keeps her hands still.

Later, Maeko will notice the bruises on Mebuki’s hands and gasp.

Later, Maeko will cry for her obliviousness, and hold her uncomprehending daughter close as she whispers her apologies.

But for now, Maeko only smiles and offers him a cup of tea.

“Thank you very much, Haruno-san.” Danzo tells her, words warm. “Your hospitality is always a pleasure.”

“Nonsense,” and here, Maeko will smile, because this man has brought happiness to her family even after the disastrous event three years ago. Because he has let happiness crawl back into their lives, even though she does not know why. “You know that you are always welcome here, Danzo-sama.”

“And where is little Sakura-chan?” Danzo asks as Mebuki whines at the inattention.

“Oh,” Maeko’s smile becomes more strained. “She’s been…it’s been difficult for her. She’s been pulling away now; unfocused, less determined...there are times when I wish there could be something I could do for her. I do not want her to end up—“

She stutters on the words _like her father._

She doesn’t notice the victorious gleam that smudges in his gray eyes.

“I think,” Danzo says softly. “I could help you with that.”

Maeko smiles and pours him another cup of tea.

**Now:**

Three weeks have dwindled away when Sasuke finds it.

He’s going through Danzo’s desk, a job appointed by Tsunade herself. She’s trying to keep Team Seven busy, Sasuke knows. Naruto is piled high with paperwork, barely getting enough sleep as he rushes to and fro from the office and back again. Kakashi is stuck in the Blackops, re-ordering Konoha’s military system and he only pops by to pester Tsunade about Sakura every once in a while.

Naruto, of course, hasn’t given up.

Neither, to his surprise, has Hinata. But then again, and he thinks of the Hyuuga’s soft eyes on Naruto’s, she would have done anything for the man that she loves.

He jolts out of his thoughts as his finger snags on a sharp edge.

Cursing, he pulls the digit into his mouth, sucking at the red that pools on his skin.

He carefully pulls the thing out, cautious not to catch his skin on it.

There is a stutter of breath so sharp he’s lightheaded, and then—and then—

Rage and anger so sharp that it _burns_ cuts through him at an alarming pace. His eyes ache with the force of the mangekyo and swirl with the rinnegan and his hand is bleeding but he doesn’t care that he’s clenching the frame hard enough to cut.

Sakura, bright, lovely Sakura is holding her hitai-ate, a beaming brilliant smile on her face and standing next to—next to _Danzo._

Sakura—Sakura the one he—

He cuts off that thought in his mind, stifling it down below layers and layers of disappointment and anger and _rage._

It only takes ten seconds for him to find himself in front of Tsunade, anger making his tone sharp and cutting.

_“What is this?”_ he hisses.

His blood drips to the floor.

“Ah,” Tsunade says, raising her head. There is a glimmer of sadness in her honey eyes that Sasuke doesn’t care for. “So you’ve found it.”

**Before:**

Maeko holds Mebuki’s hand tightly, her eyes wide in terror.

“Have we come to an understanding, Haruno-san?” Danzo says softly.

It’s not the sort of question you can answer.

Maeko only nods.

“I understand,” she chokes on the words.

_I’m so sorry, Sakura-chan_.

Maeko only prays that she can forgive them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right??? so more confusion and strange-ness, but I'm building a rapport and stuff and!!! I hope you like it!!! It'll all come together in a little bit, you'll see. Hope you enjoy :)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wieuhfdoweijoidjsaoidjqwodwdq im not super happy about this chapter butUGH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aoijeiojdewidw im not so sure about this chapter, but ey. Hope you enjoy it anyways???????? I might edit later who knows?

**Before:**

“You see here, Sakura-chan?” her father whispered, and his eyes are bright and soft in the gentle sunlight. “This is where the legends say we get our coloring.”

Her eyes are open wide and gaping, her mouth open at the sight of the seashell-pink glimmering underneath the choppy surface. They sit quietly at the mouth of a freshwater stream, her papa holding onto her collar as she leans forward as far as she can, peering into the shallow depths of the aquamarine river.

“A _sea urchin_ Papa?” her nose wrinkles, and she can’t help but be a little underwhelmed.

It’d be so much cooler if they’d gotten their coloring from mermaids or tropical fish or even _giant squids._

Not _sea urchins._

Her papa laughs, deep and thundering, and a smile steals onto Sakura’s face. Hiding it away with a tiny hand, she tries to stifle the giggles that erupt out of her. Her father’s laugh has always made her smile and even her stern mother cracks a grin when Kizashi begins to laugh—it’s just that inviting; a warm waterfall of joy sliding over your skin like a well-loved melody.

“My little starfish,” her father beams at her, wiping the tears that trickle from his eyes, “There are many things I cannot teach you. The stories of our people, our kinsmen; who live on the water and swim in the rivers. The legends of our mothers and the women before them—there is so much you should know—but I cannot share them with you yet.”

And here he goes a little somber, his deep gray eyes losing that familiar twinkle.

“…Why?” Sakura asks, even though she can guess.

There are _those_ adults that look at her now, like she’s diseased. Their eyes squint over her father, trailing over his dark skin and petal-pink hair, the slate gray of his murky eyes and high, carved cheekbones—her cheekbones. Lips turn downwards, foreheads crease, distaste puckers their mouths. The children who ignored her picked up on their parent’s ire and bully her now— _forehead, forehead, my parents say you’re **weird** —_

_(“Sweetheart…it would be best if you didn’t go outside, alright? The…the garden still needs weeding.”—“but I already did the—“and then, “Listen to your Mother, Sakura-chan.”)_

“Ah, Saku-chan,” her father seems to take a breath that nearly collapses his lungs as he lets it go. “You’ll know when you’re older.”

“Okay Papa,” Sakura says with the faith only found in that of child, “You’ll tell me later.”

_(He never does.)_

**Now:**

“I don’t understand,” Naruto says, and Sasuke has to bite his lip to keep from _screaming._

Tsunade has told him absolutely _nothing_ and he’s half the mind to hunt Sakura down himself—

He takes a breath. _He’s different now._

Sasuke steels himself and raises darkened onyx eyes to the Lady Hokage.

“Explain.”

Her eyes narrow onto him, contempt rising in those honey-yellow depths, but this is the best Sasuke can attempt at civility and it’s fading _fast._

“This has nothing to do with you, Uchiha.” Tsunade hisses and Sasuke feels the burn of the mangekyo activate.

“It has _everything_ to do with me—it’s about _Danzo._ And my teammate.”

 _Sakura_ who wasn’t supposed to be embroiled in this _mess._

“…She’s smiling in this picture.” Naruto says quietly. He raises clear blue eyes to the Hokage, imploring. “Why is she smiling, Tsunade?”

There is a moment where the office is still.

Tsunade holds in a breath, her shoulders high around her ears, her eyes spitting mad and fierce with anger. Kakashi looks…latent as usual but there’s a sharpness about his movements that puts Sasuke on edge.

“She’s the excuse.” Kakashi says slowly, eyes widening in understanding.

“What does that _mean?”_ Sasuke hisses and he can feel the aggression building in his veins. “What excuse?”

Tsunade glares at Kakashi so fiercely it nearly burns the man to the ground. Kakashi remains strong in the face of her anger, eyes defiant.

“I’m right.” Kakashi states. His fingers interlace in front of him, and he presses a finger to the bridge of his nose. “She’s _that_ excuse.”

“ _What fucking excuse?”_ Sasuke nearly yells.

“You aren’t cleared—“

“Fuck that noise, I’m her _teammate!”_ Sasuke nearly bellows, and he sees Tsunade’s eye twitch in anger, “And we’re talking about _Danzo._ The _man_ who was responsible for the murder of my entire family.”

Naruto remains quiet and thoughtful, his eyes riveted on Sakura’s brilliant smile, how she clutched at Danzo’s hands and hung the hitai-ate across her brow.

She looks proud and fierce.

She looks like someone he doesn’t even know.

Tsunade screams at them all and throws them out. Tells them they’re on suspension. That they’re not to come back.

All Naruto can see is the way Sakura practically _glows_ next to the elder.

 _I don’t understand, Sakura-chan,_ he thinks. _I don’t understand._

**After:**

“You don’t know what he was _like,”_ Sakura says and her voice breaks, “He was charming. And _nice_. He took me out for dango. He listened to me talk about _‘Sasuke-kun this, Sasuke-kun that’._ He thought I was smart, that I would be pretty. He _believed in me.”_

 _“He murdered my entire family!”_  Sasuke is red in the face, snarling, “You loved a _murderer.”_

“He wasn’t—“she falters, “He wasn’t to me.”

“…he was just _Jiji-sama._ ”

**Before:**

 “I don’t _understand,_ ” she sobs. “Where is _Papa?”_

“…he’s not here right now.” He tells her quietly. His eyes hold something close to sympathy.

“When is he coming back?” Sakura whispers and her eyes are huge in her face, luminous in their grief. “Papa always comes back.”

“Not anymore.”

**Now:**

The cold of the mornings fill her bones and Sakura draws the poncho closer to her, trying to cover every inch of exposed skin. She’s sweating like a pig despite it all, and her shirt is drenched, sticking to her back. Her hands burn with the aftershocks of chakra usage, and she feels like someone has stuck her in a microwave and put the setting at _extra hot._

“You did good, Haruno.” A familiar, deep voice echoes through the empty terrace. “Your help is much appreciated.”

Sakura waves him away. It had been a pit stop, to tell the truth. The bustling, desperate hospital had been where she began her search.

She had stormed into the ICU and started in on her first patient, hands lighting up with green, soothing chakra and a nurse burst into tears of gratitude and sobbed her _thank yous_ for coming to help them.

The guilty churn of her stomach felt nothing compared to the anger that lingered in her veins. _Shinobi_ had done this; left their civilians to bleed on the cracked earth, nary a care in their minds for those who died in collateral.

 _Sasuke and Naruto did this_ , the vicious voice in her mind whispers to her, and she has to push it down with logic and compassion and remind herself that—

_They did not do it out of mal intent._

“It was nothing.” Even her voice sounds scraped dry. She stares at her hands; fingernails ragged, skin dry, digits trembling.

The little hope she’d festered away in her heart had dried up the moment she had set eyes on the first nurse.

Surgeries without chakra or medical expertise were all too common, they had told her haltingly.

“It was not nothing.” Hiromoto Yasuo tells her, voice fierce and strong. “If there’s anything you need, please, do not hesitate, Haruno-sama.”

Sakura knows there is little chance, knows that with medical facilities like these they would not have survived long, if at all. Still, she turns to face the tall, dark-skinned man and fixes him with a strained smile.

“Is there any chance that maybe, you’ve seen…”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Before:**

(The thing is, she’s not allowed to be angry.)

When one heard her name, they thought of pining and longing and an ashen face, waiting for a long lost lover. They thought of impatience, short-temperedness.

They thought of pretty pink locks and bright, innocent green eyes and curious words.

But not anger. _Never_ anger.

(The thing is, she wasn’t supposed to be angry.)

They defined her by loss.

The loss of her father, and then her mother, and then her grandmother. The loss of Sasuke, and then Naruto, and then, finally, Kakashi. They thought her heartbroken—an irreparable mess carved by a loving hand.

They thought she was built up again by him (jiji), _always him,_ and then of course, by her (hokage).

She wasn’t her own, made by herself. She wasn’t strong, standing alone; she was helped.

She was guided and led down paths, the hands holding hers tightening so much her fingers turned purple.

The thing is. She wasn’t. Supposed. To be. Angry.

But, she was.

She was malleable—and they used her. Fashioned her out of clay and secrets and spite and _vengeance._ She was a tool, made by their harsh hands and harsher words, and she was never her _own._

She belonged to him, to her, and then to no one at all.

She had been pretty and delicate and special—Naruto called her princess, and he never knew how biting those words were. Sasuke called her weak but he never knew her at all and so she did not mind. Kakashi called her precious and she wanted to tear out his tongue and feast on his entrails but—

_She wasn’t to be angry._

Her anger burned, and boiled, and frothed under her tongue. It scalded her wide, innocent eyes and choked her words under bitter, bitter blood boiling in her stomach.

Her anger slept under her skin; slumbering, slumbering, slumbering.

(She wasn’t to be angry, she told herself, fingernails biting into her palms and turning up red, red, red.)

**After:**

But they’d woken it. With curving lies and pretty half-truths, embroiled in loathing and carelessness.

Now they would know.

Now they would see.

**Now:**

Sakura’s home is empty.

This is the first thing Ino notices when she steps inside the little townhouse at the edge of the shinobi district.

It’s empty, and quiet, and cold, and _all wrong._

There aren’t any pictures. The floor is covered in dust. The blinds are drawn, and the light of the warm afternoon looks ghostly as it fetters into the empty living room.

Ino stands in the living room and thinks about the last time Sakura ever stepped into this home.

She thinks of smiles and curving lips and warm fingers tracing symbols on her shoulders. She thinks of Sakura’s quiet gaze and mumbling whispers. She thinks of days where Sakura had to be pulled out of bed, and Ino’s fingers brushed raised lines on her arms.

Ino thinks, and wonders, if she ever really knew Sakura at all.

**Before:**

“Well you see, Sakura-chan,” Maeko begins. “There was…an incident.”

Sakura looks up at her, eyes wide. “What kind, Baa-san?”

Her grandmother smiles tremulously. “It’s likely nothing. But we have to go.”

“What do you mean…go?” and here, Sakura’s voice rises with hysteria. Her hands curl into her red shirt, and panic makes her shoulders shake. “What do you mean, Baa-san?”

“We’ll be back soon, Sakura-chan.”

“No, no—Baa-san you can’t _leave me here—“_

The door closed with a snick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoy?? sorry for the crap updates, my signal's shite.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: THIS CHAPTER DEALS WITH RACIAL SLURS! Please bear in mind that this is a fiction and that everything I write here is for the story and not for the sick pleasure of insulting those of mixed race, thank you very much.

**Before:**

“Mebuki—you understand—” the woman whispered, eyes hard, “ _his kind_ is not welcome here, surely you _know_ —”

And—“Mebuki, we can help you if you want to…get rid of—”

The door slammed shut.

**Now:**

The children smile.

Their clothes are ripped and they have no food in their stomachs, but they smile and smile and smile—

The adults stare.

They stare and scowl and whisper and shudder.

“Where is your father?” they ask. “Your Mother?”

“Mama is at home,” they say, and kept their smiles. “We don’t got no Papa.”

“…Where are you from, _originally?_ ”

“Konoha.” They answer. “We are from Konoha.”

The children smile.

_(At home, they weep and gnaw on wood to keep their stomachs full.)_

**Before:**

“Why is her skin different, Mama?”

“Hush now child, we don’t speak to _those ones.”_ Came the whisper. “They’re _wrong._ ”

Sakura bit her lip and looked away.

Later, later, later—

“You’re not wrong, sweetie. There’s nothing wrong with your skin, my love—”

“I’m _brown,_ Mama.” She says, tears in her eyes, “Why can’t I be white? Or _tan._ ”

Mebuki keeps her smile but the light in her eyes recede, “Because…because that’s the way it is. Papa’s dark too.”

“I’m not dark enough either, Mama.” Sakura whispers. “They don’t like me—not black, not white.”

She looks up, “Why do I have to be _brown?”_

“…There’s nothing wrong with being brown.”

And Sakura swallows the anger, and leads it down, down, down, until she can’t feel it anymore.

“Okay, Mama.”

_(But she sees and knows—you can’t be brown.)_

**Now:**

“I don’t know my Daddy, you gotta ask my Mommy—she don’t talk about him.”

They go home and bite down on their lies.

“Rape,” they say and hide their pain, “My Mamma was raped—we don’t talk about my Daddy.”

**Before:**

The words sting and burn and Sakura tries _sohardsohard but—_

“My Mama says you’re _wrong.”_

“I’m not wrong,” She says and she wants to _kill her because—_ “There’s nothing wrong with my skin.”

“Well,” Ami says, and trails a finger across her lily-white skin and Sakura _wants,_ “she says you’re _mulatto._ ”

“Half-Breed,” another girl sneers.

Sakura goes home with bitterness crawling over her skin and nails biting deep into her palms.

**Now:**

Her anger waits and waits and waits until it no longer can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: THIS CHAPTER DEALS WITH RACIAL SLURS! Please bear in mind that this is a fiction and that everything I write here is for the story and not for the sick pleasure of insulting those of mixed race, thank you very much.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it though!!! THis is the build-up but I'm definitely going somewhere.


	11. Chapter Eleven

* * *

 

**Before:**

The first time Sakura hears  _traitor_  fall from someone's lips at Sasuke's name, she flinches so hard she feels it bone deep. The word slinks its way underneath her skin and settles; her fingernails itch to  _scratch._

Naruto thinks it's her disgust and rejection at the notion that  _Sasuke_  abandoned them, left them for dead,  _didn't want them anymore._  Kakashi thinks it's because of an irritating crush formed on an irritating boy.

She knows different.

Sakura thinks of her father, faded and burned from her mind like a painful memory, and swallows hard. She thinks of scandal and pain and  _aching_. She thinks of turning the corner, and finding a smudged red pool in front of her home.

"He's no traitor." She says, and thinks of her mother, eyes vacant, mouth open. "Not Sasuke."

_Traitor._ The word feels dirty on her tongue.

**Now:**

The sun is low and heavy in the sky, the clouds a smudge of bruises overhead. It has rained for days and days and days. The landscape is bleak—tired, exhausted, maxed out. There is no one around, and all she wants to do is sleep.

Her joints ache. Her eyes feel heavy, like they cannot bear to blink open even once more.

Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Sai there, waiting for her, the picture a brutality.

She thought—she thought she was getting better. Her hands didn't shake as much. She didn't see the ghosts flickering around as much. The acrid scent of urine had fled from her bed. Her breakfast doesn't come hurtling out in the late mornings any longer.

_(A charred stomach, smelling of shit and piss and burnt flesh—a white, white, white face—too pale too pale—blank, blank eyes, no longer burning in curiosity—)_

Sakura jerks, her breath stuttering. "I'm okay."

"I'm okay." She says again, and her hands curl into loose fists.

Her hair is a curled mess, back to the kinky cloud she'd ironed away every morning. It's heavy; the petal-pink curls frizzing and dripping with water. She's already tried to wring it out, but the rain keeps on coming. She has no idea how to take care of these frizzy, curling locks. They're too dry and  _big_  and  _strange._

She thinks of dark-skinned hands, and big, pink hair and smiling gray eyes and tries to swallow an angry sob.

_They took so much,_  and here Sakura's not just thinking of  _Sasuke_  and  _Naruto_. She thinks of the women on the street who looked at her; eyebrows furrowed together, lips pursed, eyes thunderous. She thinks of little boys who tugged her candy floss hair and screamed in her ears. She thinks of little girls who pinched her skin and laughed when she didn't bruise like them.

Sakura thinks of Danzo with his quaint smile, and warm arms. She thinks of a man who was a monster and yet, took her in. Sakura has no idea why he wanted her. No  _clue_  why he wished to have a little pink-haired kiri-born civilian under his wing.

She thinks of Tsunade, who loathed her at first, and then grew to love her. Of Hokages using and using and using and using, until Sakura can  _no longer give anymorepleasestop—_

A raindrop falls on her nose, and she blinks.

The world is a gray landscape, and the only bright spot is her. Cloud-pink-curls and too-dark-skin that comes in broken splotches and too-big-too-green eyes.

**Before:**

Danzo is her favorite one of them all.

When she sees his salt-and-pepper hair, her heart jumps in her chest like a love song and a smile spreads across her cheeks. When he looks at her with a single dark eye and quiet amusement flickering over his face, Sakura knows he listens to her. He doesn't nod and hum like all the others do when they tune her out. He looks at her like she's only thing that matters in that moment; in his eyes, for at least that second, she is forever.

Sakura  _matters_  to him.

He doesn't care that she's not eating anymore, not like Maeko-baa who flutters and hisses like a banshee when she goes out without long-sleeves and long pants. He likes her anyways, even though her Mama can't look at her anymore without screaming, even though Maeko-baa makes her sit outside until Mama's calmed down, even though the people look at her like she's a diseased, disgusting thing.

"That child," she hears as she's running home, "she's not one of  _ours_  is she?"

"Sadly, she is—it's shameful. The mother is touched, you see, so it isn't her fault. But Maeko-san should have drowned the little monster at birth."

_(Goawaygoawaygoaway—)_

Danzo knows Sakura, and she loves him for it. This is why that day she turns and runs. Her feet slap against the cobblestones and her hands flail around her (she's not running right, papa told her how, but she doesn't  _care_ —) her sobs echo behind her and she runs and runs and runs until she knocks on the door—

"Take it away!" she screams, tears crawling down her cheeks. "I don't wanna be a traitor! I'm not a monster! Take it  _away!"_

( _Don'tdothisnotthisplease—)_

Danzo looks at her, "Very well child."

The gleam of victorious greed is no longer concealed.

**Now:**

There are times, when she's walking, that her mind wanders.

She thinks of the war.

The rains haven't stopped coming down. The sky is open—as if the world is crying for them all; a sign of eternal mourning.

Sakura thinks of the war and doesn't know why she ever had to fight if they told her  _they'd_  saved them all.

_Naruto, Sasuke._

The lurch in her stomach at those names has diminished, but it's still there.

She thinks of the last time she'd seen them—on the gurneys, smiles in place.

Her smile is a twisted, scarred thing.

"Is this your world?" she hums and she thinks of all the mutilated children she's tried to heal. Of their screams, their cries—their last, sucking breaths. The light that blinks away in their parents' eyes when she has to tell them, haltingly, that they did not make it.

There's something that breaks away, in those moments, and Sakura knows the exact moment that it does. The loss of a child to a parent is like trying to wade through a desolate wasteland; one that no matter how long you travel, will never truly go away.

"Is this your peace?" she asks, and thinks of all the shinobi who stare, blank-eyed, at her and wonder where Konoha is when they have to go home to crushed houses and broken streets.

"Konoha wanted a war," they whisper when they thought she could not hear, "but where are they now when our people are suffering?"

"Peace?" another spits, "they wanted  _soldiers._  They wanted  _cannon-fodder._  And now, they want to wash their hands clean and think of rainbows and flowers while we die in the ditches."

Sakura thinks of soldiers and war and Sasuke and Naruto and—

Her feet falter.

_Sai._

**Before:**

"Use these," Danzo tells her, and the bottles feel cool in her hands. They're pale, and smooth, like the feeling of cold metal in the frisky mornings. There aren't any labels, but Sakura trusts him.

_It's Danzo-jiji,_  she thinks, reassured, and Danzo-jiji loves her.

Sakura looks up at him in awe. "Are you  _sure_  they'll work?"

His dark eyes are heavy on her skin. "Quite."

She sits on the porcelain bath and locks the door. Her skin feels so dark against the paleness of the bathroom. She's naked, and shivering—fall still hasn't left—but determined.

The first bit of lotion pools on her skin, and it's white.

_Appropriate,_ Sakura thinks,  _for its job._

She's smoothing it down, down over her legs and inbetween her toes  _(She has to scrub it off, off, off)_  when the burning begins. When the tears come and the whimpers threaten, Sakura bites her lip to keep from screaming.

**Now:**

Hiromoto Yasuo, the lead surgical expert had told her to go north west to Grass. They'd heard of a  _Haruno_  over there, somewhere in the swamps of the deltas, and so Sakura hoped.

The nurses begged her to stay. Their hands clasped onto her skin and Sakura stared, and stared, and stared. Now that they needed her, they touched her so easily.

_("Don't touch, don't touch—they're dirty you know.")_

Sakura misses Sai more than anything in the world.

**Before:**

Sakura stares at the mirror.

Her skin is lighter now.  _Pale,_ she thinks in a daze,  _I'm so pale._ The lotion did its job well. Danzo gave her exercises to hide away the splotches of darker patched skin.

" _Genjutsu,"_  he had told her,  _"takes focus of the mind and the body. Once you have mastered it, only then you can go outside. Don't show anyone until you have finished."_

Sakura pretends like she can't feel the burn against her skin and bites the inside of her cheek until it's numb.

"I'm no traitor." She whispers, and stares at her pale hands. "I'm like  _you_  now."

_Like Konoha wants her to be._

**Now:**

Ino stares at the picture, and stares, and stares, and stares until she's sure her eyes are bleeding.

Sakura has never spoken of her mother or father when they were little, not even once. There was always a sense of  _something_  there that Ino didn't dare trespass. The lingering anger in those green eyes. The sense of heavy, choking grief.

Ino stares at the dark-skinned man with the magenta hair and gray eyes. Her eyes flicker back to the woman—blonde, pale, blue-eyed.

Her mouth tightens and sags at the little girl sitting in between.

Her skin is darker than Ino's ever seen it; a light-brown. Her eyes are wide, green, shining. Her hair is a cloud of pink curls, never reaching past her chin.

Ino stares at Sakura and thinks of all those times Ami whispered rude things into her ears and her sister-in-all-but-blood turned to stone.

_("I know your secret,"_  Ami had taunted, eyes victorious. " _I'll tell everyone.")_

An angry sob tears out of her throat, "You should have told me. You should have  _said."_

Little brown-skinned Sakura doesn't answer, and for once, Ino wonders if she ever will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I wanna explain a little about why I made her a poc. I wanted to explore the hypothetical idea that Naruto is more than literally one culture and that there are more poc characters than a handful of peeps from Kumo. So I made Kizashi a poc character, from a tiny island of Kiri so I could create something different. Also, we literally know nothing from Sakura's background and so its entirely plausible that her Dad's from kumo and her mum is from Iwa or some shit.
> 
> we don't even know if she's a first-gen ninja in her family? like its some stupid crap.
> 
> I also wanted to touch upon the messed up issues that Konoha has. Naruto isn't and shouldn't be the only character that's ever been discriminated against in the entirety of the show. The Uchiha are, to an extent, but I think that's a little different.
> 
> Anyways, I know that Sakura isn't a cannon poc character, but I wanted to do a what if version of that.
> 
> If you don't like it gO AWAY. Literally, I don't want to hear about what you think I can/should/do about this.
> 
> This is entirely fiction. If you don't like the direction this is heading then I'm sorry, and you can leave please.
> 
> Enjoy this update, hope you review! :)


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Before:**

“You have tested my limits before, Mebuki,” a voice hissed, “but _this?_ _This?_ You come home and shame our family like _this?_ And that child—“

“You will not speak of _my daughter_ like this.” Her mother says, voice full of fury. “Not in my home.”

There is a hard, heavy sound of the slap of skin on skin and Sakura closes her eyes tight.

Her father's fingers dig deep into her shoulder, and she tries to burrow her face into his leg.

“Leave.” Her mother hisses, but her voice breaks at the end. “Don't come back—don't ever come back Mother.”

The first time Sakura ever sees her Grandmother, she is storming out of her home; her eyes are green, and narrowed, and red-rimmed.

Their eyes lock.

The woman's mouth twists into a sneer.

“Time to go inside, little starfish.”

Her father's gray eyes are warm in his face, and Sakura feels just a little safer.

**After:**

“You were never supposed to survive,” the old woman croaks, eyes trailing over her skin.

Sakura shrugs, and it's a painful thing.

“It turns out,” she said evenly, “That I'm quite good at doing what is unexpected of me.”

**Now:**

Revenge is a sweet, sweet word.

It tastes like ichor; the kind that makes your throat convulse and choke on the revulsion that bubbles up inside of you. The word is sweet; too sweet. It reminds Sakura of summer nights spent on the back porch, her Mother fussing with her hair, and her Father's smooth, baritone voice weaving a spell around them.

It reminds Sakura of Sai, dying in the mud from a wound even she cannot heal. And as the images fade away; as Sai is replaced with a pale lifeless body, and all that remains of her father is a smudge of red on a sidewalk, and her mother's pretty blue eyes glaze over as she looks into the face of her only child; the word inches its way further down her throat, her tongue nailed to the roof of her mouth.

“Revenge,” she muses, and a bitter smile troubles her lips.

It has been raining for days, and Sakura has finally found a little road-side inn, the delacacies of which are better left unmentioned. The innkeeper—a sturdy woman of old age, with ancient, sagging skin—didn't look twice at her—a smattering of mismatched skin, heavy green eyes and thick, bouncing curls never touching her shoulders.

Sakura paid extra for her troubles.

Revenge is a word that she knows all too well. Sasuke's anthem, written in blood and sacrifice remains tattooed across her memory like an old disease.

She stares out at the fire pit, and quietly stokes the flames. She can feel the heat steaming from the wooden logs, and cracks appear like spiderwebs across the surface. The coals threaten to burn her skin as she leans low, closing her eyes.

A hiss, a pop, and then Sakura leans back again, drawing her knees close.

She catches the sight of her mottled skin out of the corner of her eye, and she looks down. The genjutsus are gone. The rain has washed away the rest of the deception, and now she looks a mess of patchwork quilts.

Her hair is curly again; kinky, and big, and all too dry.

As Sakura stares at her skin, she thinks of those bottles. Pale, and sleek, and inviting.

They hadn't managed to take away all of the dark skin, but they'd done enough. Splotches of white-pink form in every shape over her legs. Some splay out, a mockery of her young fingers playing against her skin. The rest of her skin is dark, like the earth after the heavy rains, and once again, Sakura feels the ichor rise in her throat and clench at her heart.

“Revenge.” She says. Her fingers splay across her shin, slipping back into old slots. Like this, her skin looks like it had never been shed.

It's always tasted like fond memories and bitter sacrifices.

_All too sweet._

The sky rumbles, and Sakura decides its still too early to decide.

**Before:**

The first time Karin ever met Sakura, she was seventeen.

Up ahead, thunderclouds rolled around like bowling balls, and the sky bruised a blue-black so vivid it threatened to convulse above them. She was scared. Karin was always scared; being terrified was a state of being, one that she knew like an old lover.

But as Karin looked into the boy's eyes and saw nothing there, she was afraid. She saw him, standing there, clear and vivid in the thunderous atmosphere. She could feel the old man's hands holding onto her, and his breath on her ear. Vicious words, spewed lies, and bright, furious anger carry a lulling tune and the boy's eyes darken, hardening.

His mouth twists into a snarl, and Karin shuts her eyes.

_She is so afraid._

**After:**

The girl is hovering over her, and for the first time, it feels like Karin is seeing in color.

Vivid green eyes well with tears. A sob catches on soft lips. A strand of magenta hair slips over a shoulder, and tickles Karin's nose.

“—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—“the girl is chanting. Her face isn't pretty, not like Karin had seen it before. Before, Karin had thought the girl too delicate and precious; her nose was fine, and her cheeks sculpted. Her mouth was carved, and her slender shoulders were rigid as she stared into the boy's eyes.

There was a flutter in his chakra, and then it goes back to the roiling, writhing mess it had become.

She remembers the girl's name—

“... _Sakura...”_ Karin manages to choke out. The blood tastes like old metal on her tongue. “He's...He's not the same...Sasuke you once...knew...”

And the girl's eyes are warm, and destroyed.

“I know. I know.”

“Let me _heal you_.”

Karin's eyes shutter closed.

**Now:**

Karin doesn't like war. She doesn't like uncertainty. She doesn't like to fight.

Karin is a coward, and she doesn't feel bad about it. There are more important things, to her, than to fight for a shinobi village. There are more important things than mad snake men who promise infinity and beyond. Karin's had her taste of that life. She doesn't _want_ to stay in Konoha.

Not where the people watch her with scrutiny and curl their lips in her direction. Not where Juugo stays locked up, an animal, and Suigetsu waits for Sasuke to notice them.

Not where they demand things like—

“Karin—I need you to find someone for me.”

—this.

She scowls at him, and she sees a perfect black eyebrow lift a millimeter.

“No.” She wants to throw a tantrum and scream and cry, but she's trying to make a point here. “I don't want to stay anymore. I'm _not staying here anymore.”_

His eyes darken, and fear sparks low in her stomach once more. He grabs her by the wrist, shoving her backwards into the wall. His face is a twisted snarl.

“You'll do as I say or nothing at all.” He hisses into her ear.

Karin's heart beats too fast in her chest.

“ _Fine.”_ she barely dares to breathe. “Who do you want me to find?”

“Haruno Sakura.”

Karin closes her eyes and thinks of her words so long ago.

“ _Let me heal you.”_

She wants to laugh.

Instead, she thinks, _I'm sorry. I am a coward._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're ready??? this is leading somewhere, no doubt about it. Also, Sasuke went a little insane, so yeah. All shall be revealed in time.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Before:**

The boy is beautiful.

That’s Karin’s first thought when she sees him, towering over her, eyes victorious. His hair is messy, and it looks rough against his throat, but it’s a gorgeous midnight color and her eyes follow it with greed. His skin is pale, like the kind the nobles wish they had, and smooth, which is strange because he’s a genin, and genin aren’t to have smooth skin.

His voice rolls out across the clearing, and Karin _shivers._

Then he’s gone, and Karin feels like something is missing again, and she remembers—

He _looked_ at her.

There is something building up in her throat and she feels like she’s overfull, like the joy will rip apart her seams and break her soul because—

_He saw her._

**After:**

Karin knows she’s making a fool of herself. She knows the looks, the perfume, the mindless tittering is far _too much_. She knows he hates it. But there’s something about him that makes her want to consume him, to break him into little parts and savor it for later.

This isn’t love.

She tells herself it is, oh how she tells herself it is. But this feeling; roiling in her veins, and burning her tongue, and twitching her fingers; it isn’t soft or kind or mean.

It’s _desperate._

It’s the kind of feeling that builds, and builds, and builds, until she doesn’t even know that she’s reaching out for him, to touch his smooth skin. The kind of feeling that terrifies Karin, because she _knows,_ oh how she _knows_ , that she isn’t supposed to feel this way for one person.

It’s a kind of madness that makes her yearn, and beg, and cry, and scream for him. There are days when she lies in her sleeping bag and hopes to god that he has died. Hopes that his heart stops beating, that his lungs will never fill again, that his throat clenches around the last breath of air.

And yet, when she hears his smooth voice, relief as sweet as sakura petals and brutal as poison makes her breathe again.

_Alive,_ she thinks, _he’s still alive._

She doesn’t know this boy-man, and as they walk around hunting for answers she doubts he’ll ever find, she hopes she never will.

**Now:**

Tsunade has felt terror in her life, the likes that have made her hair turn gray, and her heart stop dead in her chest. She has felt the stench of fear coming off her skin, and the quickening of her breath as she hovered in between the unknown.

Tsunade has felt fear, has felt horror and terror and everything in between, but nothing can prepare her for the knowledge that Uchiha Sasuke has once more betrayed Konoha.

Not for herself, not for the country, but the girl—no, the daughter—that she loves so dearly. She remembers the exact moment when Sakura left the office, her eyes dark and vivid against her face, and the words she’d uttered.

_“If you let them follow me I’ll never forgive you.”_

“Explain to me, once more if you will, how he got a hand on Uzumaki Karin?” she demands, quite terror making her calm.

The ANBU-nin nods slowly, as if they know that she’s a bomb about to explode.

“Uchiha Sasuke infiltrated the compound at 0300 in the morning and knocked the guards unconscious. He disposed of them in the courtyard and entered Uzumaki Karin’s room without notifying the alarm system. We believe he did this by studying the rigged system in his own apartment.”

The ANBU hesitates, “Subject Hozuki has also been reported missing.”

Her mouth is dry with fear.

Tsunade wants to scream and cry, to rain hell upon Sasuke Uchiha and all that he brings. She wants to rip him apart for making her break her promise to her apprentice, for having to notify her that she was being hunted now, and that she had to _move._

Her eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, she allows them to well. The bitterness surges in her throat and she feels the slicing pain in her chest.

Then she swallows, once, twice. The hysteria that grew recedes, and she opens furious eyes.

“Get me Hatake Kakashi, Nara Shikamaru and Uzumaki Naruto.”

The ANBU nods once and disappears in a cloud of smoke.

_I’m so sorry Sakura,_ she wants to choke out, but her jaw is so tight it won’t let her.

**After:**

The night is cool on his skin.

The moon is bright, everlasting. He traces its design in the sky; the rhythm of the habit making his heart calm. He’s not nervous, he knows. Shaking exhilaration fills his veins until his hands are trembling, and the excitement bleeds out on his tongue.

He exhales slowly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful night.

He knows he should not be waiting for Sasuke to come. He doesn’t know why he is.

_Sasuke._

Even the name rings heavy with implication. He thinks of crazy eyes and desperation. Of bitter tears and raw screams and shifting anger. He doesn’t think he’s ever not seen Sasuke angry.

Karin’s guilt had been fear, but Sasuke’s was anger. There was darkness around the boy. Darkness so thick and pungent it made him want to turn and run sometimes. It made him want to hide, deep, deep, underwater, and far, far away.

Because when Sasuke was angry, the whole world trembled and Suigetsu was no different.

**Before:**

He hadn’t seen the medic-girl in weeks.

Juugo didn’t know where she had gone.

He remembered bits of her, like shattered glass scattered across the patchwork of his mind. Flashes of pink, green and fire. He remembered the curve of her mouth when she pursed her lips. The way she rubbed the back of her neck when she was concentrating, fingers playing with the fluff of her hair.

Juugo remembered little of Haruno Sakura, but what he did know was that she had been strong. Her eyes remained fierce, but gentle. She was kind. Brusque and quick-tempered, but ultimately kind.

There was something about her that made him sad.

Sometimes, he saw her eyes darken in the mirror, as if she were searching for something that wasn’t there. She rarely looked at herself head on, but when she did, there was always a hesitant pause, and then the desperation that unleashed itself in her face whenever she stared too long.

_Searching,_ he thought, _always searching._

So when the ANBU came to his cell with hard eyes and brutal words, he gave them what he could.

“I don’t know much about her.” He croaked. “She was kind…to me.”

_She smelled of salt, like the ocean. Like tears._

A pause.

“The Uchiha has gone after her.”

Juugo’s stomach jumped. He wondered, vaguely, why he felt so afraid.

“Then pray he does not find her first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so, actually, someone commented that Sakura shouldn't be labelled as a POC because she already was?? And then I realized that the label Person Of Color means different things to different countries/people/communities/societies/cultures.   
> So, there was a problem of definitions.   
> For me, POC means literally just that "a person who has colored skin". For me, Japanese people aren't POC bc they don't have "colored skin" (defined, by me, and my country as people of skin color that is brown and/or darker). That also means though, that they aren't white. I thought that was clear in my writing, but apparently not to everyone.   
> I also want to take a step back and say that there are different "types" of "white" people. By this i mean, the implications and connotations that come with the label "white" - not the actual skin color itself - white people are white, but the analysis and meaning of that label has different meaning in various cultures. They are defined very differently in America, for example, than in Europe, or elsewhere.   
> Some things I want to address: Sakura is not white, nor is she Caucasian. She is Japanese by creation. She is also not "black". She has dark skin in this because I wanted to explore this little niggle of a story in my mind.   
> I labelled her as a Person Of Color because in my definition of this label, that is what she is in this story.   
> I hope that everything is cleared up. 
> 
> ANyways, hope you enjoy this :)


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Before:**

The thing is, Sakura is good at being quiet. She's good at being quiet and pretending and sewing her mouth closed after someone looks at her a little too hard, squints at her a little too much.

The thing is, Sakura is good at being quiet, even though her words are loud, and her actions are even bolder. She's good at breathing in the rage and letting it settle, deep, deep inside of her, like silt on the bank of a muddied river. She's good at letting it churn and churn and churn until all she is feeling is that  _scratch_  of anger, and her eyes twitch and her throat works, and she wants to  _scream_ —

The chunnin exams are when it starts.

It's always the chunnin exams.

Sakura remembers stepping into the arena and listening. She listened to the hush of the crowd, and the interspersed whispering. She listened to the beat of her heart, and the way her blood rushed through her veins.

She listened to Hyuuga Neji who doesn't quite stifle his words when he scoffs, "Of course the Yamanaka will win. Haruno's nothing—only a civilian playing with knives."

Sakura listened, and the blood began to boil, and she felt the rage explode in her mind and for once, for once, for the first time since her father's death, the first time since she'd seen the smudge of red splayed across the ground, she wanted  _to kill someone._

Sakura remembers the tight grip on her kunai and the rage, and then looking at Ino. Ino who was supposed to be her best friend and  _why couldn't Sakura just have one thing just have this one terrible thing, why couldn't_ _ **she**_ _take Sasuke when Ino_ _ **had everything else—**_

She remembers the words she'd nearly spat, "This fight isn't for Sasuke-kun," she remembers the rage and brutality, "This is between us, Ino."

_This is between a Kiri-born outsider, patch-skinned civilian and a Konoha-born, Konoha-native clan child._

And Ino had scoffed, and Sakura knew that she thought she would win but Ino never saw Sakura angry, no one had, and the rage she carried was deep and furious and she felt like burning everything to the ground and then—

The shot of the match sounded and Sakura  _pounced._

She barely remembers what she did, what she said; she could only feel the rage and the beat of war under her skin and the feeling of desperation clouding her mind until—

" _GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"_  She screams and then she's vicious and desperate because Ino looks like she's  _seen_  something and Sakura can't have that, no, Sakura can't have that at all—

"The match ends in a tie!"

For the first time, Sakura wants to disregard every inch of civility and passivity that Konoha has ingrained in her. Every. Single. Inch. Of her body yearns to tear out the Clan Child's throat.

_Why don't you?_ The voices whisper,  _Why don't you?_

And then Sakura blinks, because people are looking at her strangely, and she can't have that. No, Sakura can't have that at all.

So, instead, she reigns in the trembling of her hands and the burn of the rage, and breathes,  _deep._

"Ino," Sakura opens her eyes, and pretends like she can't see the wariness in her friend's. "Let's put this behind us."

When Ino smiles, Sakura has to try and stop the twitch of the kunai still gripped tight in her hand.

**After:**

Naruto goes still when Tsunade calls them up to her office.

For a moment, a single, furious moment he wants to curse Haruno Sakura and the day she was born. For a single, debilitatingly wrathful second, he wants to wish that she wasn't so  _goddamn selfish all the time how could she do this to us god FUCKING DAMNIT—_

And then, Shikamaru begins to speak, quickly, desperately, and Naruto goes white as a sheet.

**Before:**

Shikamaru didn't know much about Haruno Sakura, not at first.

She was loud, she was annoying, she was in love. Or she was supposed to be. He thinks that he should have seen it, back then, in the academy, when Ino had declared ever-lasting affection for the Uchiha and then the next day, Sakura came to class with blushing cheeks and a nervous voice.

She was always good at being quiet. Not with her words, but with her mind. She didn't speak about herself. Not once did he see someone pick her up from the academy. Not even on the first and last day of school did someone come to see her.

Ino brushed it away when he asked. "They're civilians, you know," and Shikamaru could see that spark of superiority, even when Ino tried to stifle it. "They don't  _understand."_

"Sakura's different, though." Ino always said, as if this exonerated everything she'd just told him. "She's like us."

The curiosity began when he saw her wrists. When they were little, she used to wear long-sleeves, and long pants, with hair covering her forehead and her hands always stuck in her pockets. He never saw much of Sakura's skin until they turned seven and she came into class with blushing cheeks and a short-sleeved dress.

He'd never seen Sakura in a dress their whole lives. Moreover, he'd never seen her wear anything remotely revealing.

And then he saw her wrists.

Bony, thin, wrists, that looked like they could snap at any second.

And then, in the flash of light, something flickered, and her wrists were smudged-brown before they lightened again just as quickly.

Shikamaru didn't know much about Haruno Sakura, not at first, not until he saw her wrists.

And then something  _shifted._

And Shikamaru suddenly saw.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short, but I'm feeling it :) Hope you enjoy! Also, Naruto can be mad and rude too. In fact, I think he can be pretty obnoxious sometimes, and a little blind when he's not trying too hard. Sure he's a sunshine child but he's not Jesus.


	15. Chapter 15

**Before:**

Her grandmother stared at her when she came back. Her green eyes were wide, and her mouth was open, gaping, and for a second, Sakura wanted to switch places with Ino, so she could understand that inexplicable glimmer in her eyes, that shifting edge in her mouth.

When she can speak again, Maeko-baa-san only whispers. “Who did this to you?”

For a minute, Sakura thinks she’s angry. That she’ll rage and scream and yell and burn everything to the ground. That she’ll take Sakura by the hand and march up to Danzo and demand that he make her brown again, that he make her _dark_ and _different_ and _wrong._

(They all tell her she’s wrong, wrong, wrong, but she’s fixed it now, fixed it, fixed it and no _one_ can make it go back to the way it was—)

But then her grandmother smiles, and her eyes are soft when Sakura looks into them.

“We should thank them.” Her grandmother says, and suddenly, something dawns on her and it feels wrong, dirty, dirty, dirty and it swallows her whole, but she _can’t take it back now, oh she’s done it now,_ “You look…”

Sakura waits, dizzy with half-joy and half-grief.

Her fingers twitch on her pale skin. It looks naked, like someone took away her armor. She looks…Konohian. Like her mother, her pale-skinned mother with her clear blue eyes, and the slanted jaw, and the dazed, confused look.

Sakura hopes she looks like her now.

She has her father’s jaw, the slant of his feline eyes, the plumpness of his mouth in her soft face. She has things that her mother could never, would never, have and she hopes they’ve faded away with the porcelain bottles and the light-skin she’s given herself.

(Sakura hopes she _never_ looks like her father again. Not like the memories that linger in her dirty, outsider mind. Not like the glimmers and glances she thinks she sees in the mirror; smudged, darkened, _wrong._ )

Maeko-baa-san smiles wider, and Sakura cannot help but shake. Her hands are clammy, her mind is whirling, and she’s half angled herself towards the door just in case the hands come down when—

“You look…like you’re your mother’s daughter now. Like you’re… _right._ ”

Sakura smiles, shy and fluttering, but she cannot help but remember the way her skin had burned, and the tears tracked down her face as she effaced all that was supposed to be _wrong._ That as the white began to show through the cracks, her heart beat faster and faster and faster, until all she could think about were her father’s dark face and hands and warm, soft smile—

“Don’t worry,” her grandmother comes closer to her, and Sakura has to swallow the instinctive fear that burns through her. She nearly flinches when Maeko-baa caresses her cheek. Her grandmother’s eyes are so clear, so green, so much like _hers._

“You’ll never have to be that man again.”

Sakura closes her eyes and tries not to feel like she’s lost her whole mind.

**After:**

Sakura creeps past the academy, holding her breath. Her hair is in her face, and her steps are soft, just like her father taught her, and Danzo told her to. Her hands are clenched in her skirt, and she only lifts her eyes when she has to.

She hasn’t been to see them for a whole week. Some part of her knew, deep, down inside her, that she’d betrayed them. That in picking up those white bottles, cool to the touch, the cream burning as it smeared across her skin, time and time again, she’d given away everything she was supposed to represent.

Something that had been as much a part of her as her pale-skinned mother and green, green eyes.

But she swallowed her pride and lifted her head when she reached the row of dirty, collapsing houses, in shambles. They’re not collapsing exactly. From far away, they look as pretty as the rest of Konoha’s city; bright, shimmering colors on the outside, pretty gardens on terraces, lace curtains in the windows.

Except, when she gets closer, she can see the peeling paint. The dirty, groaning doors swinging with care, because no one could dare to afford another. The little garden plots grew with the stench of opium poppies, cannabis, salvia, the creeping ayahuasca vines, and the betel nuts. The men and women that sat on the balconies had blank eyes and gaping mouths. They didn’t look at her, not even when she shuffled and made far too much noise. They were lost, deep, deep, never to come out of the shells of their minds. Where the lace swung in the breeze, Sakura could see the smudge of gray, the stiff dust that lay intertwined with the fabric.

“Sakura!”

She freezes in her steps, hands curling tighter into her dress, and heart jackhammering in her chest, as she raises her eyes to face them.

Her friends, if she can call them that, stand before her; a melee of dark skins, black-brown-blue eyes, skinny shoulders and tight clothes. Some are older, like Sesasi, who’s eyes are wide and scared, but trying to look tough. Others, like her and Mikyou whose mother gave him a Konohian name before she left him, are younger, trembling out in the open, only ever comfortable in the eve of night.

Mikyou is the first to look scared.

His brown eyes were looking, looking, looking, over her new skin and hands and Sakura felt herself wanting to curl into her chest, to disappear, and suddenly, the white skin, the feeling of _wrong_ skin is back again, and she wants to _die,_ to never have been _born,_ because at least then she’d be right, she’d be good because—

_(“People like you aren’t supposed to exist.”)_

“What…I don’t…” her friend’s mouth wobbles, and she thinks his eyes flicker in fear, in horror, and then in sudden, fierce anger. “You…you were supposed to be like _us._ ”

“I’m…sorry.” Sakura chokes out, shoulders to her ears, shame welling in her voice. “I…I…”

The tears are horrendous; a lump in her throat, the shame, the fear, the utter _disgust_ she feels for herself. She was weak. Weak and petty and _scared._

( _Nothing, you’re nothing, no one should even be forced to look at you, you disgust me, pretentious, obnoxious child **get out of the street before we make you—** )_

She can’t tell them anything, can’t tell them how she’d begged and pleaded and it was so _easy, too easy,_ to erase them from her skin. How the temptation was sweet and slick in her chest, and she’d caved, caved, caved and now, now…she wasn’t…she couldn’t…

“…I…I…” The air gets stuck in her lungs, strangled, and she has to look away from her friends’ accusing gazes.

Sakura turns, bolts and she hears them shout after her.

She runs and runs and runs and never comes back.

**Now:**

The rain has let up, and Sakura is travelling again.

They’ve sent her letters. So many, many letters. Looping, flowery handwriting, written by the most qualified calligraphers. Gifts and food and promises that sound like honey but taste as sickly sweet in her mouth.

The kage want her. She can see it in their greedy, quivering eyes, and sly, diplomatic smiles. They’re getting ready; ready for the hunt, the pounce, the kill. Konoha, no matter how much they’ve fooled themselves she realizes, has no mercy from their neighboring nations, and what little those nations have, they covet; she’s fair game now, Konoha’s best medic, free for all who can grab her and make her theirs.

Her body is still sore from the war. Her eyes sting from all the smoke she’d walked through. There are times when she has to sit down; her chakra has not worked quite the same, not since she harnessed it all for the army of a whole world. She gets dizzy, and nauseous, and when the light flickers in a certain way under the trees, her throat gets tight and she has to think of calming things before her body can stop hyperventilating.

Some part of her, the part that wants her to sob and to cry and to _give up the whole world because why did she have to **fixeverydamnthing—** _

…There are times when she wants to give up. Where she wants to sit on a lichen-covered rock, knees to her chest, and cry for everything she has lost. For everything that she freely gave up.

The bitterness, the rage, the utter and complete loss…she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Sai, she liked to think, had been her anchor to Konoha. The lost, sad boy who had been her friend. A gentle boy. A murderer, but her murderer; she’d loved him. Loved him like the siblings she’d never gotten to have, like the family who had left her for Danzo to warp and twist and maim.

The other part reminds her that she must get up. That if she has any lingering hope in her body, she must find her mother. Her grandmother. She must find the family that Konoha had taken from her if she was to do anything.

Her chest hurt, and her eyes stung, and her skin was too blaring and bright in the sun, and she wanted to burn everything that reminded her of Konoha—but she knew that if she did, she’d forget Sai, and Ino and Shizune. She’d forget Mikyou and Sesasi and the friends that had loved her before she’d broken their trust.

Sakura wants to…oh how she _wants to_ …but she thinks of her mother before they’d killed her, of her father who loved her so dearly, of Danzo…who took her away before she was old enough to know it was wrong.

She gets up from the forest floor, tearing her hands from her hair, and walks. She’s trembling and shaking and there’s a faint smell of vomit around her; she hadn’t been able to keep her breakfast down, and the medic in her wouldn’t allow herself to forget to eat.

She trudges through the mud, the sunshine making her scared anyone can see her now; patch-skinned, curly bouncing hair and jarring eyes.

Sakura tries to breathe, tries to think, but all she can do is walk; half inside and half out of her mind.

 (She tries to make it, but she doesn’t know if she can.)

**After:**

“She was here.” Karin’s voice is shaking, and her eyes are too wide. Next to her, Suigetsu fidgets, but he can’t bring himself to say anything in quip.

He’s never seen Karin like this. Never seen her shaking and scared, and he suddenly sees how young she looks; with her hair tucked behind her ears, and her mouth trembling, and the fear leaking into her voice.

He wonders, slowly, how many times she’d let anyone see her like this.

Sasuke says nothing. He doesn’t have to; his face is dark, strained, all too fierce.

Suigetsu swallows, trying to make it not sound too loud.

The country road looks deserted in front of them. Sasuke has not yet moved, and he stands still, so still, that Suigetsu wonders if he’s re-thinking the whole thing.

Then, his gravelly, baritone voice rings out into the air, and Suigetsu feels _terrified_.

“We won’t stop.” Sasuke promises, horrifying gleam in his eye. “We won’t stop until I’ve hunted her down." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's an update. I hope you enjoy this??? I'm beginning to make more plotlines and such and I have a genuine idea of where this is going now. Please be patient with me! I have literally so much university work to do it's insane tbh. 
> 
> Enjoy, and thank you EVERYONE!!! for the amazing, inspiring comments. 
> 
> Once again: work of fiction, if you don't like it, please don't read it. There's a difference between constructive criticism and just criticism, and while I do enjoy the former, the latter I usually do not.

**Author's Note:**

> aiefowhjeiofjdweiojdeiow i dont know dont look at my omg.


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